O F THE 

UNIVERSITY 
or  1 LLI  N O I S 


From  the  Library  of 
Dr.  R.  E.  Hieronymus 
1942 


S9s 

/&3-. 


Return  this  book  on  or  before  the 
Latest  Date  stamped  below.  A 
charge  is  made  on  all  overdue 
books. 

University  of  Illinois  Library 


m 


(j^_  S. 


THE 


SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE  CL^f 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 
AND  PAINTING 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE 


BY 

JOHN  RUSKIN 


NEW  YORK 

LOVELL,  CORYELL  & COMPANY 

43,  45  47  EAST  TENTH  STREET 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Alternates 


https://arch.ive.org/details/sevenlampsofarch00rusk_2 


uo 

1KZS<> 


THE 

SEVEN  LAMPS 


V ARCHITECTURE 


I ! 94638 


*!i' 


I ii 


I I.  I;  /;  I:  r 

lly  '!i  :l 


PEEFAOE. 


The  memoranda  which  form  the  basis  of  the  following 
Essay  have  been  thrown  together  during  the  preparation  of 
one  of  the  sections  of  the  third  volume  of  “ Modern  Paint- 
ers.” * I once  thought  of  giving  them  a more  expanded  form  ; 
but  their  utility,  such  as  it  may  be,  would  probably  be  dimin- 
ished by  farther  delay  in  their  publication,  more  than  it  would 
be  increased  by  greater  care  in  their  arrangement.  Obtained 
in  every  case  by  personal  observation,  there  may  be  among 
them  some  details  valuable  even  to  the  experienced  architect ; 
but  with  respect  to  the  opinions  founded  upon  them  I must 
be  prepared  to  bear  the  charge  of  impertinence  which  can 
hardly  but  attach  to  the  writer  who  assumes  a dogmatical  tone 
in  speaking  of  an  art  he  has  never  practised.  There  are,  how- 
ever, cases  in  which  men  feel  too  keenly  to  be  silent,  and  per- 
haps too  strongly  to  be  wrong  ; I have  been  forced  into  this 
impertinence  ; and  have  suffered  too  much  from  the  destruc- 
tion or  neglect  of  the  architecture  I best  loved,  and  from  the 
erection  of  that  which  I cannot  love,  to  reason  cautiously  re- 

* The  inordinate  delay  in  the  appearance  of  that  supplementary  vol- 
ume has,  indeed,  been  chiefly  owing  to  the  necessity  under  which  the 
writer  felt  himself,  of  obtaining  as  many  memoranda  as  possible  of 
mediaeval  buildings  in  Italy  and  Normandy,  now  in  process  of  destruction, 
before  that  destruction  should  be  consummated  by  the  Restorer  or  Rev- 
olutionist, His  whole  time  has  been  lately  occupied  in  taking  drawings 
from  one  side  of  buildings,  of  which  masons  were  knocking  down  the 
other  ; nor  can  he  yet  pledge  himself  to  any  time  for  the  publication  of 
the  conclusion  of  “Modern  Painters;”  he  can  only  promise  that  its 
delay  shall  not  be  owing  to  any  indolence  on  his  part. 


G ^ / 'I  PREFACE. 

tlite  modesty  cA'  tny  opposition  to  the  principles  which 
have  i^idueed  the  scorn  of  the  one,  or  directed  the  design  of 
the  other.  And  I liave  been  the  less  careful  to  modify  the 
confidence  of  my  statements  of  principles,  because  in  the  midst 
of  the  opposition  and  uncertainty  of  our  architectural  systems, 
it  seems  to  me  that  there  is  something  grateful  in  any  positive 
opinion,  though  in  many  points  wrong,  as  even  weeds  are  use- 
ful that  grow  on  a bank  of  sand. 

Every  apology  is,  however,  due  to  the  reader,  for  the  hasty 
and  imperfect  execution  of  the  plates.  Having  much  more 
serious  work  in  hand,  and  desiring  merely  to  render  them 
illustrative  of  my  meaning,  I have  sometimes  very  completely 
failed  even  of  that  humble  aim  ; and  the  text,  being  generally 
written  before  the  illustration  was  completed,  sometimes 
naively  describes  as  sublime  or  beautiful,  features  which  the 
plate  represents  by  a blot.  I shall  be  grateful  if  the  reader 
will  in  such  cases  refer  the  expressions  of  praise  to  the  Archi- 
tecture, and  not  to  the  illustration. 

So  far,  however,  as  their  coarseness  and  rudeness  admit, 
the  plates  are  valuable  ; being  either  copies  of  memoranda 
made  upon  the  spot,  or  (Plates  IX.  and  XI.)  enlarged  and 
adapted  from  Daguerreotypes,  taken  under  my  own  sujierin- 
tendence.  Unfortunately,  the  great  distance  from  the  ground 
of  the  window  which  is  the  subject  of  Plate  IX.  renders  even 
the  Daguerreotype  indistinct ; and  I cannot  answer  for  the 
accuracy  of  any  of  the  mosaic  details,  more  especially  of  those 
which  surround  the  wdndow,  and  which  I rather  imagine,  in 
the  original,  to  be  sculptured  in  relief.  The  general  propor- 
tions are,  however,  studiously  preserved  ; the  spirals  of  the 
shafts  are  counted,  and  the  effect  of  the  whole  is  as  near  that 
of  the  thing  itself,  as  is  necessary  for  the  purposes  of  illustra- 
tion for  which  the  plate  is  given.  For  the  accuracy  of  the 
rest  I can  answer,  even  to  the  cracks  in  the  stones,  and  the 
number  of  them  ; and  though  the  looseness  of  the  drawing, 
and  the  picturesque  character  which  is  necessarily  given  by  an 
endeavor  to  draw  old  buildings  as  they  actually  appear,  may 
perhaps  diminish  their  credit  for  architectural  veracity,  they 
will  do  so  unjustly. 


PREFACE. 


I I 1:1/  ; .7 

The  system  of  lettering  adopted  in  the  iiistaiiees  ini 
which  sections  have  been  given,  appears  somewhat  obscure  in 
the  references,  but  it  is  convenient  upon  the  whole.  The  line 
which  marks  the  direction  of  any  section  is  noted,  if  the  sec- 
tion be  symmetrical,  by  a single  letter ; and  the  section  itself 
by  the  same  letter  with  a line  over  it,  a. — a.  But  if  the  sec- 
tion be  unsymmetrical,  its  direction  is  noted  by  two  letters, 
a.  a.  at  its  extremities ; and  the  actual  section  by  the  same 
letters  with  lines  over  them,  a.  a.  , at  the  corresponding  ex- 
tremities. 

The  reader  will  perhaps  be  surprised  by  the  small  number 
of  buildings  to  which  reference  has  been  made.  But  it  is  to 
be  remembered  that  the  following  chapters  i^retend  only  to 
be  a statement  of  principles,  illustrated  each  by  one  or  two 
examples,  not  an  essay  on  European  architecture  ; and  those 
examples  I have  generally  taken  either  from  the  buildings 
which  I love  best,  or  from  the  schools  of  architecture  which,  it 
appeared  to  me,  have  been  less  carefully  described  than  they 
deserved.  I could  as  fully,  though  not  with  the  accura?cy  and 
certainty  derived  from  personal  observation,  have  illustrated 
the  principles  subsequently  advanced,  from  the  architecture 
of  Egypt,  India,  or  Spain,  as  from  that  to  which  the  reader  will 
find  his  attention  chiefiy  directed,  the  Italian  Bomanesque 
and  Gothic.  But  my  affections,  as  well  as  my  experience,  led 
me  to  that  line  of  richly  varied  and  magnificently  intellec- 
tual schools,  wdjich  reaches,  like  a high  watershed  of  Christian 
architecture,  from  the  Adriatic  to  the  Northumbrian  seas, 
bordered  by  the  impure  schools  of  Spain  on  the  one  hand, 
and  of  Germany  on  the  other : and  as  culminating  points  and 
centres  of  this  chain,  I have  considered,  first,  the  cities  of  the 
Val  d’Arno,  as  representing  the  Italian  Bomanesque  and  pure 
Italian  Gothic ; Venice  and  Verona  as  representing  the  Italian 
Gothic  colored  by  Byzantine  elements  ; and  Bouen,  with  the 
associated  Norman  cities,  Caen,  Bayeux,  and  Coutances,  as  rep- 
resenting the  entire  range  of  Northern  architecture  from  the 
Bomanesque  to  Flamboyant. 

I could  have  wished  to  have  given  more  examples  from  our 
early  English  Gothic  ; but  I have  always  found  it  imjoossiblo 


to  work  in  tke  cold  interiors  of  our  cathedrals,  while  the  daily 
services,  lamps,  and  fumigation  of  those  upon  the  Continent, 
render  them  perfectly  safe.  In  the  course  of  last  summer  I 
undertook  a pilgrimage  to  the  English  Shrines,  and  began  with 
Salisbury,  where  the  consequence  of  a few  days’  work  was  a 
state  of  weakened  health,  which  I may  be  permitted  to  name 
among  the  causes  of  the  slightness  and  imperfection  of  the 
present  Essay, 


IlSrTEODUCTOEY. 


Some  years  ago,  in  conversation  witli  an  artist  whose  worhs, 
perhaps,  alone,  in  the  present  day,  unite  perfection  of  drawing 
with  resplendence  of  color,  the  writer  made  some  inquiry  re- 
specting the  general  means  by  which  this  latter  quality  was 
most  easily  to  be  attained.  The  reply  was  as  concise  as  it 
was  comprehensive — Know  what  you  have  to  do,  and  do  it  ” 
— comprehensive,  not  only  as  regarded  the  branch  of  art  to 
which  it  temporarily  applied,  but  as  expressing  the  great 
principle  of  success  in  every  direction  of  human  effort  ; for  I 
believe  that  failure  is  less  frequently  attributable  to  either  in- 
sufficiency of  means  or  impatience  of  labor,  than  to  a confused 
understanding  of  the  thing  actually  to  be  done  ; and  therefore, 
while  it  is  properly  a subject  of  ridicule,  and  sometimes  of 
blame,  that  men  propose  to  themselves  a perfection  of  any 
kind,  which  reason,  temperately  consulted,  might  have  shown 
to  be  impossible  with  the  means  at  their  command,  it  is  a 
more  dangerous  error  to  permit  the  consideration  of  means  to 
interfere  with  our  conception,  or,  as  is  not  impossible,  even 
hinder  our  acknowledgment  of  goodness  and  perfection  in 
themselves.  And  this  is  the  more  cautiously  to  be  remem= 
bered  ; because,  while  a man’s  sense  and  conscience,  aided  by 
Revelation,  are  always  enough,  if  earnestly  directed,  to  enable 
him  to  discover  what  is  right,  neither  his  sense,  nor  conscience, 
nor  feeling,  are  ever  enough,  because  they  are  not  intended, 
to  determine  for  him  what  is  possible.  He  knows  neither  his 
own  strength  nor  that  of  his  fellows,  neither  the  exact  depend- 
ence to  be  placed  on  his  allies  nor  resistance  to  be  expected 
from  his  opponents.  These  are  questions  respecting  which 
p.assion  may  warp  his  conclusions,  and  ignorance  must  limit 


10 


INTRODUCTORY. 


tliein  ; but  it  5s  his  rmn  fault  if  either  interfere  with  the  aT> 
prelieusion  of  duty,  or  the  acknowledgment  of  right.  And,  as 
far  as  1 have  taken  cognizance  of  the  causes  of  the  many  fail- 
ures to  which  the  efforts  of  intelligent  men  are  liable,  more 
es^^ecially  in  matters  political,  they  seem  to  me  more  largely 
to  spring  from  this  single  error  than  from  all  others,  that  the 
inquiry  into  the  doubtful,  and  in  some  sort  inexplicable,  re- 
lations of  capability,  chance,  resistance,  and  inconvenience,  in- 
variably precedes,  even  if  it  do  not  altogether  supersede,  the 
determination  of  what  is  absolutely  desirable  and  just.  Nor 
is  it  any  wonder  that  sometimes  the  too  cold  calculation  of 
our  powers  should  reconcile  us  too  easily  to  our  shortcomings, 
and  even  lead  us  into  the  fatal  error  of  supposing  that  our 
conjectural  utmost  is  in  itself  well,  or,  in  other  words,  that 
the  necessity  of  offences  renders  them  inoffensive. 

What  is  true  of  human  polity  seems  tome  not  less  so  of  the 
distinctively  political  art  of  Architecture.  I have  long  felt  con- 
vinced of  the  necessity,  in  order  to  its  j^rogress,  of  some  de- 
termined effort  to  extricate  from  the  confused  mass  of  partial 
traditions  and  dogmata  with  which  it  has  become  encumbered 
during  imperfect  or  restricted  practice,  those  large  principles 
of  right  which  are  applicable  to  every  stage  and  style  of  it. 
Uniting  the  technical  and  imaginative  elements  as  essentially 
as  humanity  does  soul  and  body,  it  shows  the  same  infirmly 
balanced  liability  to  the  prevalence  of  the  lower  part  over  the 
higher,  to  the  interference  of  the  constructive,  with  the  purity 
and  simplicity  of  the  reflective,  element.  This  tendency,  like 
every  other  form  of  materialism,  is  increasing  with  the  advance 
of  the  age  ; and  the  only  laws  which  resist  it,  based  upon 
partial  precedents,  and  already  regarded  with  disresjoect  as 
decrepit,  if  not  with  defiance  as  tyrannical,  are  evidently  in- 
applicable to  the  new  forms  and  functions  of  the  art,  which 
the  necessities  of  the  day  demand.  How  many  these  necessities 
may  become^  cannot  be  conjectured  ; they  rise,  strange  and 
impatient,  out  of  every  modern  shadow  of  change—  How  far  ' 
it  may  be  possible  to  meet  them  without  a sacrifice  of  the  es- 
sential characters  of  architectural  art,  cannot  be  determined 
by  specific  calculation  or  observance.  There  is  no  law^,  no 


INTRODUCTORY. 


11 


principle,  based  on  past  practice,  which  may  not  be  overthrown 
in  a moment,  by  the  arising  of  a new  condition,  or  the  inven- 
tion of  a new  material  ; and  the  most  rational,  if  not  the  only, 
mode  of  averting  the  danger  of  an  utter  dissolution  of  all  that 
is  systematic  and  consistent  in  our  practice,  or  of  ancient  au- 
? thority  in  our  judgment,  is  to  cease  for  a little  while,  our  en- 
deavors to  deal  with  the  multiplying  host  of  particular  abuses, 
restraints,  or  requirements ; and  endeavor  to  determine,  as 
the  guides  of  every  effort,  some  constant,  general,  and  irre- 
fragable laws  of  right — laws,  which  based  upon  man’s  nature, 
not  upon  his  knowledge,  may  possess  so  far  the  unchangeable- 
ness of  the  one,  as  that  neither  the  increase  nor  imperfection 
of  the  other  may  be  able  to  assault  or  invalidate  them. 

There  are,  perhaps,  no  such  laws  peculiar  to  any  one  art. 
Their  range  necessarily  includes  the  entire  horizon  of  man’s 
action.  But  they  have  modified  forms  and  operations  belong- 
ing to  each  of  his  pursuits,  and  the  extent  of  their  authority 
cannot  surely  be  considered  as  a diminution  of  its  weight. 
Those  peculiar  aspects  of  them  which  belong  to  the  first  of  the 
arts,  I have  endeavored  to  trace  in  the  following  pages  ; and 
since,  if  truly  stated,  they  must  necessarily  be,  not  only  safe- 
guards against  every  form  of  error,  but  sources  of  every  meas- 
ure of  success,  I do  not  think  that  I claim  too  much  for  them 
in  calling  them  the  Lamps  of  Architecture,  nor  that  it  is  indo- 
lence,  in  endeavoring  to  ascertain  the  true  nature  and  nobility 
of  their  fire,  to  refuse  to  enter  into  any  curious  or  special  ques- 
tioning of  the  innumerable  hindrances  by  which  their  light 
has  been  too  often  distorted  or  overpowered. 

Had  this  farther  examination  been  attempted,  the  work 
would  have  become  certainly  more  invidious,  and  perhaps  less 
useful,  as  liable  to  errors  which  are  avoided  by  the  present 
simplicity  of  its  plan.  Simple  though  it  be,  its  extent  is  too 
great  to  admit  of  any  adequate  accomplishment,  unless  by  a 
devotion  of  time  which  the  writer  did  not  feel  justified  in  with- 
drawing from  branches  of  inquiry  in  which  the  prosecution  of 
works  already  undertaken  has  engaged  him.  Both  arrange- 
ments and  nomenclature  are  those  of  convenience  rather  than 
of  system  ; the  one  is  arbitrary  and  the  other  illogical : nor  is 


V2 


INTUOBUGTORr. 


it  2:>retended  tliat  all,  or  even  the  greater  number  of,  the  prim 
ciples  necessary  to  the  well-being  of  the  art,  are  included  in 
the  inquiry.  Many,  however,  of  considerable  importance  will 
be  found  to  develope  themselves  incidentally  from  those  more 
specially  brought  forward. 

Graver  aj^ology  is  necessary  for  an  ap2:)arently  graver  fault. 
It  has  been  just  said,  that  there  is  no  branch  of  human  work 
whose  constant  laws  have  not  close  analogy  with  those  which 
govern  every  other  mode  of  man’s  exertion.  But,  more  than 
this,  exactly  as  we  reduce  to  greater  simjdicity  and  surety  any 
one  group  of  these  j^ractical  laws,  we  shall  find  them  passing 
the  mere  condition  of  connection  or  analogy,  and  becoming 
the  actual  expression  of  some  ultimate  nerve  or  fibre  of  the 
mighty  laws  which  govern  the  moral  world.  However  mean 
or  inconsiderable  the  act,  there  is  something  in  the  well  doing 
of  it,  which  has  fellowshij)  with  the  noblest  forms  of  manly 
virtue ; and  the  truth,  decision,  and  temperance,  which  we 
reverently  regard  as  honorable  conditions  of  the  spiritual 
being,  have  a rejoresentative  or  derivative  influence  over  the 
works  of  the  hand,  the  movements  of  the  frame,  and  the  action 
of  the  intellect. 

And  as  thus  every  action,  down  even  to  the  drawing  of  a 
line  or  utterance  of  a syllable,  i-s  ca^^able  of  a i^eculiar  dignity 
in  the  manner  of  it,  which  we  sometimes  express  by  saying  it 
is  truly  done  (as  a line  or  tone  is  true),  so  also  it  is  capable  of 
dignity  still  higher  in  the  motive  of  it.  For  there  is  no  action 
so  slight,  nor  so  mean,  but  it  may  be  done  to  a great  puiq^ose, 
and  ennobled  therefore  ; nor  is  any  pur^oose  so  great  but  that 
slight  actions  may  helj)  it,  and  may  be  so  done  as  to  helj)  it 
much,  most  especially  that  chief  of  all  jourjooses,  the  jfleasing 
of  God.  Hence  George  Herbert — 

“A  servant  with  tliis  clause 
Makes  drudgery  divine  ; 

Who  sweeps  a room,  as  for  thy  laws, 

Makes  that  and  the  action  fine.” 

Therefore,  in  the  ^^ressing  or  recommending  of  any  act  or 
manner  of  acting,  we  have  choice  of  two  sej^arate  lines  of  ar- 


/ 


INTRODUCTORY. 


la 


g'ument  1 one  based  on  representation  of  the  expediency  or 
inherent  value  of  the  work,  which  is  often  small,  and  always 
disputable  ; the  other  based  on  proofs  of  its  relations  to  the 
higher  orders  of  human  virtue,  and  of  its  acceptableness,  so 
far  as  it  goes,  to  Him  who  is  the  origin  of  virtue.  The  former 
is  commonly  the  more  persuasive  method,  the  latter  assuredly 
the  more  conclusive  ; only  it  is  liable  to  give  offence,  as  if 
there  were  irreverence  in  adducing  considerations  so  weighty 
in  treating  subjects  of  small  temporal  importance.  I believe, 
however,  that  no  error  is  more  thoughtless  than  this.  We 
treat  God  with  irreverence  by  banishing  Him  from  our 
thoughts,  not  by  referring  to  His  will  on  slight  occasions. 
His  is  not  the  finite  authority  or  intelligence  which  cannot  bo 
troubled  with  small  things.  There  is  nothing  so  small  but 
that  we  may  honor  God  by  asking  His  guidance  of  it,  or  in- 
sult Him  by  taking  it  into  our  own  hands  ; and  what  is  true 
of  the  Deity  is  equally  true  of  His  Kevelation.  We  use  it 
most  reverently  when  most  habitually : our  insolence  is  in 
ever  acting  without  reference  to  it,  our  true  honoring  of  it  is 
in  its  universal  application.  I have  been  blamed  for  the 
familiar  introduction  of  its  sacred  words.  I am  grieved  to 
have  given  pain  by  so  doing  ; but  my  excuse  must  be  my  wish 
that  those  words  were  made  the  ground  of  every  argument 
and  the  test  of  every  action.  We  have  them  not  often  enough 
qn_oiu^  jips,  nor  deeply  enough  in  our  memories,  nor  loyally 
enough  in  our  lives.  The  snow,  the  vapor,  and  the  stormy 
wind  fulfil  His  word.  Are  our  acts  and  thoughts  lighter  and 
wilder  than  these — that  we  should  forget  it  ? 

I have  therefore  ventured,  at  the  risk  of  giving  to  some 
passages  the  appearance  of  irreverence,  to  take  the  higher 
line  of  argument  wherever  it  appeared  clearly  traceable  : and 
this,  I would  ask  the  reader  especially  to  observe,  not  merely 
because  I think  it  the  best  mode  of  reaching  ultimate  truth, 
still  less  because  I think  the  subject  of  more  importance  than 
many  others  ; but  because  every  subject  should  surely,  at  a 
period  like  the  present,  be  taken  up  in  this  spirit,  or  not  at 
all.  The  aspect  of  the  years  that  approach  us  is  as  solemn  as 
it  is  full  of  mystery  ; and  the  weight  of  evil  against  which  we 


14: 


INTRODUCTORY. 


have  to  contend,  is  increasing  like  the  letting  out  of  water. 
It  is  no  time  for  the  idleness  of  metaphysics,  or  the  entertain- 
ment of  the  arts.  The  blasphemies  of  the  earth  are  sounding 
louder,  and  its  miseries  heaped  heavier  every  day ; and  if,  in 
the  midst  of  the  exertion  which  every  good  man  is  called  upon 
to  put  forth  for  their  repression  or  relief,  it  is  lawful  to  ask 
for  a thought,  for  a moment,  for  a lifting  of  the  finger,  in  any 
direction  but  that  of  the  immediate  and  overwhelming  need, 
it  is  at  least  incumbent  upon  us  to  approach  the  questions  in 
which  we  would  engage  him,  in  the  spirit  which  has  become 
the  habit  of  his  mind,  and  in  the  hope  that  neither  his  zeal 
nor  his  usefulness  may  be  checked  by  the  withdrawal  of  an 
hour  which  has  shown  him  how  even  those  things  which 
seemed  mechanical,  indifferent,  or  contemptible,  depend  for 
their  perfection  upon  the  acknowledgment  of  the  sacred  prin- 
ciples of  faith,  truth,  and  obedience,  for  which  it  has  become 
the  occupation  of  his  life  to  contend. 


THE 


SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  LAMP  OF  SACEIFICE. 

I.  Architecture  is  the  art  which  so  disposes  and  adorns  the 
edifices  raised  by  man  for  whatsoever  uses,  that  the  sight  oi 
them  contributes  to  his  mental  health,  power  and  pleasure. 

It  is  very  necessary,  in  the  outset  of  all  inquiry,  to  distin- 
guish carefully  between  Architecture  and  Building. 

To  build,  literally  to  confirm,  is  by  common  understanding 
to  put  together  and  adjust  the  several  pieces  of  any  edifice  or 
receptacle  of  a considerable  size.  Thus  we  have  church  build- 
ing, house  building,  ship  building,  and  coach  building.  That 
one  edifice  stands,  another  floats,  and  another  is  suspended 
on  iron  springs,  makes  no  difference  in  the  nature  of  the  art, 
if  so  it  may  be  called,  of  building  or  edification.  The  persons 
wdio  profess  that  art,  are  severally  builders,  ecclesiastical, 
naval,  or  of  whatever  other  name  their  w'ork  may  justify  ; but 
building  does  not  become  architecture  merely  by  the  stability 
of  what  it  erects  ; and  it  is  no  more  architecture  which  raises 
a church,  or  which  fits  it  to  receive  and  contain  with  comfort 
a required  number  of  persons  occupied  in  certain  religious 
offices,  than  it  is  architecture  which  makes  a carriage  com- 
modious or  a ship  swift.  I do  not,  of  course,  mean  that  the 
word  is  not  often,  or  even  may  not  be  legitimately,  applied  in 
such  a sense  (as  we  speak  of  naval  architecture)  ; but  in  that 
sense  architecture  ceases  to  be  one  of  the  fine  arts,  and  it  is 
therefore  better  not  to  run  the  risk,  by  loose  nomenclature,  of 
the  confusion  which  would  arise,  and  has  often  arisen,  from 


10 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


extoiiding  principles  which  belong  altogetlier  to  building,  into 
the  sphere  of  architecture  proper. 

Let  us,  therefore,  at  once  confine  the  name  to  that  art 
which,  taking  up  c'liid  admittiiig,  as  conditions  of  its  working, 
the  necessities  and  common  uses  of  the  building,  impresses  on 
its  form  certain  characters  venerable  or  beautiful,  but  oiher- 
wdse  unnecessary.  Thus,  I suppose,  no  one  would  call  the 
kuvs  architectural  Avhich  determine  the  height  of  a breastwork 
or  the  position  of  a bastion.  But  if  to  the  stone  facing  of  that 
bastion  be  added  an  unnecessary  feature,  as  a cable  moulding, 
that  is  Architecture.  It  w^ould  be  similarly  unreasonable  to 
call  battlements  or  machicolations  architectural  features,  so 
long  as  they  consist  only  of  an  advanced  gallery  supported  on 
projecting  masses,  with  open  intervals  beneath  for  offence. 
But  if  these  projecting  masses  be  carved  beneath  into  rounded 
courses,  which  are  useless,  and  if  the  headings  of  the  intervals 
be  arched  and  trefoiled,  which  is  useless,  that  is  Architecture. 
It  may  not  be  always  easy  to  draw  the  line  so  sharj^ly  and 
simply,  because  there  are  few  buildings  which  have  not  some 
pretence  or  color  of  being  architectural ; neither  can  there  be 
any  architecture  which  is  not  based  on  building,  nor  any 
good  architecture  which  is  not  based  on  good  building  ; but 
it  is  perfectly  easy  and  very  necessary  to  keep  the  ideas  dis- 
tinct, and  to  understand  fully  that  Ai’chitecture  concerns  itself 
only  with  those  characters  of  an  edifice  which  are  above  and 
beyond  its  common  use.  I say  common  ; because  a building 
raised  to  the  honor  of  God,  or  in  memory  of  men,  has  surely  a 
use  to  which  its  architectural  adornment  fits  it ; but  not  a use 
which  limits,  by  any  inevitable  necessities,  its  plan  or  details. 

n.  Architecture  proper,  then,  naturally  arranges  itself  un- 
der five  heads  : — 

Devotional ; including  all  buildings  raised  for  God’s  ser- 
vice or  honor. 

Memorial  ; including  both  monuments  and  tombs. 

Civil  ; including  every  edifice  raised  by  nations  or  societies, 
for  purposes  of  common  business  or  pleasure. 

Military  ; including  all  private  and  public  architecture  of 
defence. 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACHIFICE. 


17 


Domestic ; including  every  rank  and  kind  of  dwelling-place. 

Now,  of  the  principles  which  I would  endeavor  to  develoj^, 
wliile  all  must  be,  as  I have  said,  applicable  to  every  stage  and 
style  of  the  art,  some,  and  especially  those  which  are  exciting 
rather  than  directing,  have  necessarily  fuller  reference  to  one 
kind  of  building  than  another  ; and  among  these  I would  place 
first  that  spirit  which,  having  influence  in  all,  has  nevertheless 
such  especial  I'eference  to  devotional  and  memorial  architec- 
ture— the  spirit  which  offers  for  such  work  j)recious  things  sim- 
ply because  they  are  precious  ; not  as  being  necessary  to  the 
building,  but  as  an  offering,  surrendering,  and  sacrifice  of 
what  is  to  ourselves  desirable.  It  seems  to  me,  not  only  that 
this  feeling  is  in  most  cases  wholly  wanting  in  those  who  for- 
ward the  devotional  buildings  of  the  present  day  ; but  that  it 
would  even  be  regarded  as  an  ignorant,  dangerous,  or  perhaps 
criminal  principle  by  many  among  us.  I have  not  space  to 
enter  into  dis23ute  of  all  the  various  objections  which  may  be 
urged  against  it — they  are  many  and  spacious ; but  I may, 
perhaps,  ask  the  reader’s  j^atience  while  I set  down  those  sim- 
ple reasons  which  cause  me  to  believe  it  a good  and  just  feel- 
ing, and  as  well-jfieasing  to  God  and  honorable  in  men,  as  it 
is  beyond  all  disjDute  necessary  to  the  jwoduction  of  any  great 
work  in  the  kind  with  which  we  are  at  2)resent  concerned, 

III.  Now,  first,  to  define  this  Lam^),  or  Sj^irit  of  Sacrifice, 
clearly.  I have  said  that  it  j^ronij^ts  us  to  the  offering  of 
precious  things  merely  because  they  are  jn-ecious,  not  because 
they  are  useful  or  necessary.  It  is  a spirit,  for  instance,  which 
of  two  marbles,  equally  beautiful,  ajDplicable  and  durable, 
would  choose  the  more  costly  because  it  was  so,  and  of  two 
kinds  of  decoration,  equally  effective,  would  choose  the  more 
elaborate  because  it  was  so,  in  order  that  it  might  in  the  same 
compass  present  more  cost  and  more  thought.  It  is  therefore 
most  unreasoning  and  enthusiastic,  and  2)erhaps  best  nega- 
tively defined,  as  the  02)posite  of  the  j)revalent  feeling  of 
modern  times,  which  desires  to  produce  the  largest  results  at 
the  least  cost. 

Of  this  feeling,  then,  there  are  two  distinct  forms  : the  first, 
the  wish  to  exercise  self-denial  for  the  sake  of  self-discipline 
2 


18 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


merely,  a -wisli  acted  upon  in  tlie  ahandonment  of  tliiiige 
loved  or  desired,  there  being  no  direct  call  or  purpose  to  Ije 
answered  by  so  doing  ; and  the  second,  the  desire  to  honor  or 
please  some  one  else  by  the  costliness  of  the  sacrifice.  The 
practice  is,  in  the  first  case,  either  private  or  public  ; but  most 
fre(iuently,  and  perhaps  most  projoerly,  private  ; while,  in  the 
latter  case,  the  act  is  commonly,  and  with  greatest  advantage, 
public.  Now,  it  cannot  but  at  first  appear  futile  to  assert  tlK3 
expediency  of  self-denial  for  its  own  sake,  when,  for  so  many 
sakes,  it  is  every  day  necessary  to  a far  greater  degree  than 
ail}"  of  us  2)ractise  it.  But  I believe  it  is  just  because  we  do 
not  enough  acknowledge  or  contemplate  it  as  a good  in  itself, 
that  we  are  apt  to  fail  in  its  duties  when  they  become  impera- 
tive, and  to  calculate,  with  some  partiality,  whether  the  good 
proposed  to  others  measures  or  warrants  the  amount  of  griev- 
ance to  ourselves,  instead  of  accepting  with  gladness  the  op- 
portunity of  sacrifice  as  a personal  advantage.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  it  is  not  necessary  to  insist  uj^on  the  matter  here  ; since 
there  are  always  higher  and  more  useful  channels  of  self- 
sacrifice,  for  those  who  choose  to  practise  it,  than  any  con- 
nected with  the  arts. 

While  in  its  second  branch,  that  which  is  esi^ecially  con- 
cerned with  the  arts,  the  justice  of  the  feeling  is  still  more 
doubtful  ; it  depends  on  our  answer  to  the  broad  question. 
Can  the  Deity  be  indeed  honored  by  the  presentation  to  Him 
of  any  material  objects  of  value,  or  by  any  direction  of  zeal 
or  wisdom  which  is  not  immediately  beneficial  to  men  ? 

For,  observe,  it  is  not  now  the  question  whether  the  fair- 
ness and  majesty  of  a building  may  or  may  not  answer  any 
moral  purpose  ; it  is  not  the  result  of  labor  in  any  sort  of 
which  we  are  speaking,  but  the  bare  and  mere  costliness — the 
substance  and  labor  and  time  themselves  : are  these,  we  ask, 
independently  of  their  result,  acceptable  offerings  to  God,  and 
considered  by  Him  as  doing  Him  honor  ? So  long  as  we  re- 
fer this  question  to  the  decision  of  feeling,  or  of  conscience, 
or  of  reason  merely,  it  will  be  contradictorily  or  imj^erfectly 
answered  ; it  admits  of  entire  answer  only  when  we  have  met 
another  and  a far  different  question,  whether  the  Bible  be 


THE  LAMP  OF  SAC  HI F ICE. 


19 


indeed  one  book  or  two,  and  whether  the  character  of  God 
revealed  in  the  Old  Testament  be  other  than  His  character 
revealed  in  the  New. 

IV,  Now,  it  is  a most  secure  truth,  that,  although  the  par- 
ticular ordinances  divinely  appointed  for  special  purposes  at 
any  given  period  of  man’s  history,  may  be  by  the  same  divine 
authority  abrogated  at  another,  it  is  impossible  that  any  char- 
acter of  God,  appealed  to  or  described  in  any  ordinance  past 
or  present,  can  ever  be  changed,  or  understood  as  changed, 
by  the  abrogation  of  that  ordinance.  God  is  one  and  the 
same,  and  is  pleased  or  displeased  by  the  same  things  for  ever, 
although  one  part  of  His  pleasure  may  be  expressed  at  one 
time  rather  than  another,  and  although  the  mode  in  which 
His  pleasure  is  to  be  consulted  may  be  by  Him  graciously 
modified  to  the  circumstances  of  men.  Thus,  for  instance,  it 
was  necessary  that,  in  order  to  the  understanding  by  man  of 
the  scheme  of  Redemption,  that  scheme  should  be  foreshown 
from  the  beginning  by  the  type  of  bloody  sacrifice.  But  God 
had  no  more  pleasure  in  such  sacrifice  in  the  time  of  Moses 
than  He  has  now  ; He  never  accepted  as  a propitiation  for  sin 
any  sacrifice  but  the  single  one  in  prospective  ; and  that  we 
may  not  entertain  any  shadow  of  doubt  on  this  subject,  the 
worthlessness  of  all  otheif  sacrifice  than  this  is  proclaimed  at 
the  very  time  when  typical  sacrifice  was  most  imperatively  de- 
manded. God  was  a spirit,  and  could  be  worshipped  only  in 
spirit  and  in  truth,  as  singly  and  exclusively  when  every  day 
brought  its  claim  of  typical  and  material  service  or  offering, 
as  now  when  He  asks  for  none  but  that  of  the  heart. 

So,  therefore,  it  is  a most  safe  and  sure  principle  that,  if  in 
the  manner  of  performing  any  rite  at  any  time,  circumstances 
can  be  traced  which  we  are  either  told,  or  may  legitimately 
conclude,  pleased  God  at  that  time,  those  same  circumstances 
will  please  Him  at  all  times,  in  the  performance  of  all  rites  or 
offices  to  which  they  may  be  attached  in  like  manner  ; unless 
it  has  been  afterwards  revealed  that,  for  some  special  purpose, 
it  is  now  His  will  that  such  circumstances  should  be  with- 
drawn. And  this  argument  will  have  all  the  more  force  if  it 
can  be  shown  that  such  conditions  were  not  essential  to  the 


20 


THE  LAMP  OF  SAGIUFTCE. 


completeness  of  the  rite  in  its  human  uses  and  bearings,  and 
only  were  added  to  it  as  being  in  (Jieni.Heloes  pleasing  to  God. 

V.  Now,  was  it  necessary  to  the  completeness,  as  a type,  of 
the  Levitical  sacrifice,  or  to  its  utility  as  an  explanation  of 
divine  purposes,  that  it  should  cost  anything  to  the  person  in 
whose  behalf  it  was  offered  ? On  the  contrary,  the  saciiHce 
which  it  foreshowed  was  to  be  God’s  free  gift ; and  the  cost 
of,  or  difficulty  of  obtaining,  the  sacrificial  type,  could  only 
render  that  type  in  a measure  obscure,  and  less  expressive  of 
the  offering  which  God  would  in  the  end  provide  for  all  men. 
Yet  this  costliness  was  generally  a condition  of  the  accept- 
ableness of  the  sacrifice.  “ Neither  will  I offer  unto  the  Lord 
my  God  of  that  which  doth  cost  me  nothing.”  ^ That  costli- 
ness, therefore,  must  be  an  acceptable  condition  in  all  human 
offerings  at  all  times ; for  if  it  was  pleasing  to  God  once,  it 
must  please  Him  always,  unless  directly  forbidden  by  Him 
afterwards,  which  it  has  never  been. 

Again,  was  it  necessary  to  the  tyjhcal  perfection  of  the 
Levitical  offering,  that  it  should  be  the  best  of  the  flock? 
Doubtless  the  spotlessness  of  the  sacrifice  renders  it  more  ex- 
pressive to  the  Christian  mind  ; but  was  it  because  so  expres- 
sive that  it  was  actually,  and  in  so  many  words,  demanded  by 
God  ? Not  at  all.  It  was  demanded  by  Him  expressly  on  the 
same  grounds  on  wdiich  an  earthly  governor  would  demand  it, 
as  a testimony  of  respect.  “ Offer  it  now  unto  thy  governor.”  | 
And  the  less  valuable  offering  was  rejected,  not  because  it  did 
not  image  Christ,  nor  fulfil  the  purposes  of  sacrifice,  but  be- 
cause it  indicated  a feeling  that  would  grudge  the  best  of  its 
possessions  to  Him  who  gave  them  ; and  because  it  was  a bold 
dishonoring  of  God  in  the  sight  of  man.  Whence  it  may  be 
infallibly  concluded,  that  in  whatever  offerings  we  may  now 
see  reason  to  present  unto  God  (I  say  not  what  these  may 
be),  a condition  of  their  acceptableness  will  be  now,  as  it  was 
then,  that  they  should  be  the  best  of  their  kind. 

VI.  But  farther,  was  it  necessary  to  the  carrying  out  of  the 
Mosaical  system,  that  there  should  be  either  art  or  splendor 
in  the  form  or  services  of  the  tabernacle  or  temple  ? W^as  it 

* 2 Sam.  xxiv.  24.  Deut.  xvi.  16,  17.  f Mai.  i.  8. 


rilE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


''ll 

necessary  to  the  perfection  of  any  one  of  their  typical  offices, 
that  there  shonld  he  that  hanging  of  blue,  and  purple,  and 
scarlet?  those  taches  of  brass  and  sockets  of  silver?  that 
working*  in  cedar  and  overlaying  with  gold?  One  thing  at 
least  is  evident : there  was  a deep  and  awful  danger  in  it  ; a 
danger  that  the  God  whom  they  so  'worshipped,  might  be  as- 
sociated in  the  minds  of  the  serfs  of  Egypt  with  the  gods  to 
whom  they  had  seen  similar  gifts  offered  and  similar  honors 
paid.  The  probability,  in  our  times,  of  fellowship  with  the 
feelings  of  the  idolatrous  Eomanist  is  absolutely  as  nothing 
compared  ’^dth  the  danger  to  the  Israelite  of  a symj^athy  with 
the  idolatrous  Egyptian  ; * no  speculative,  no  unproved  dan- 
ger ; but  proved  fatally  by  their  fall  during  a month’s  aban- 
donment to  their  owm  will ; a fall  into  the  most  servile  idol- 
atry ; yet  marked  by  such  offerings  to  their  idol  as  their 
leader  was,  in  the  close  sequel,  instructed  to  bid  them  offer  to 
God.  This  danger  was  imminent,  perpetual,  and  of  the  most 
awful  kind  : it  was  the  one  against  which  God  made  provision, 
not  only  by  commandments,  by  threatenings,  by  promises, 
the  most  urgent,  repeated,  and  impressive  ; but  by  temporary 
ordinances  of  a severity  so  terrible  as  almost  to  dim  for  a 
time,  in  the  eyes  of  His  people.  His  attribute  of  mercy.  The 
principal  object  of  every  instituted  law  of  that  Theocracy,  of 
every  judgment  sent  forth  in  its  vindication,  was  to  mark  to 
the  people  His  hatred  of  idolatry  ; a hatred  written  under 
their  advancing  steps,  in  the  blood  of  the  Canaanite,  and 
more  sternly  still  in  the  darkness  of  their  own  desolation, 
when  the  children  and  the  sucklings  swooned  in  the  streets 
of  Jerusalem,  and  the  lion  tracked  his  prey  in  the  dust  of 
Samaria.*  Yet  against  this  mortal  danger  provision  was  not 
made  in  one  way  (to  man’s  thoughts  the  simplest,  the  most 
natural,  the  most  effective),  by  withdrawing  from  the  worship 
of  the  Divine  Being  whatever  could  delight  the  sense,  or 
shape  the  imagination,  or  limit  the  idea  of  Deity  to  place. 
This  one  way  God  refused,  demanding  for  Himself  such 
honors,  and  accepting  for  Himself  such  local  d\velling,  as  had 
been  paid  and  dedicated  to  idol  gods  by  heathen  worshippers  ; 

* Lam.  ii,  11.  2 Kings  xvii,  25. 


22 


THE  LAMP  OF  BACRIFTGE. 


and  for  wliat  reason  ? Was  the  ^lory  of  the  tabernacle  neo* 
essary  to  set  forth  or  image  His  divine  glory  to  the  minds  oi 
His2:)eople?  What!  purple  or  scarlet  necessary  to  the  peo- 
2)le  who  had  seen  the  great  river  of  Egypt  run  scarlet  to  tlie 
sea,  under  His  condemnation  ? What  1 golden  lam})  and 
cherub  necessary  for  those  who  had  seen  the  fires  of  heaven 
falling  like  a mantle  on  Mount  Sinai,  and  its  golden  courts 
opened  to  receive  their  mortal  lawgiver  ? What ! silver  clasj) 
and  fillet  necessary  when  they  had  seen  the  silver  waves  of  the 
Bed  Sea  clasj)  in  their  arched  hollows  the  corpses  of  the 
horse  and  his  rider  ? Nay — not  so.  There  was  but  one  rea- 
son, and  that  an  eternal  one  ; that  as  the  covenant  that  He 
made  with  men  was  accoinj^anied  with  some  external  sign  of 
its  continuance,  and  of  His  remembrance  of  it,  so  the  accej^t- 
ance  of  that  covenant  might  be  marked  and  signified  by  use, 
in  some  external  sign  of  tlieir  love  and  obedience,  and  surren- 
der of  themselves  and  theirs  to  His  will  ; and  that  their  grat- 
itude to  Him,  and  continual  remembrance  of  Him,  might 
have  at  once  tlieir  exjiression  and  their  enduring  testimony  in 
the  presentation  to  Him,  not  only  of  the  firstlings  of  the  herd 
and  fold,  not  only  of  the  fruits  of  the  earth  and  the  tithe  of 
time,  but  of  all  treasures  of  wisdom  and  beauty  ; of  the 
thought  that  invents,  and  the  hand  that  labors  ; of  wealth  of 
wood,  and  weight  of  stone  ; of  the  strength  of  iron,  and  of  the. 
light  of  gold. 

And  let  us  not  now  lose  sight  of  this  broad  and  unabrogated 
jDi'inciiile — I might  say,  incapable  of  being  abrogated,  so  long 
as  men  shall  receive  earthly  gifts  from  God.  Of  all  that  they 
have  His  tithe  must  be  rendered  to  Him,  or  in  so  far  and  in 
so  much  He  is  forgotten  : of  the  skill  and  of  the  treasure,  of 
the  strength  and  of  the  mind,  of  the  time  and  of  the  toil,  of- 
fering must  be  made  reverently  ; and  if  there  be  any  differ- 
(fence  between  the  Levitical  and  the  Christian  offering,  it  is 
that  the  latter  may  be  just  so  much  the  wider  in  its  range  as 
it  is  less  tyjhcal  in  its  meaning,  as  it  is  thankful  instead  of 
I sacrificial.  There  can  be  no  excuse  accepted  because  the 
Deity  does  not  now  visibly  dwell  in  His  temjfie  ; if  He  is  in- 
visible it  is  only  through  our  failing  faith : nor  any  excuse 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


23 


because  other  calls  are  more  immediate  or  more  sacred  ; this 
ought  to  be  done,  and  not  the  other  left  undone.  Yet  this 
objection,  as  frequent  as  feeble,  must  be  more  specifically  an- 
swered. 

VII.  It  has  been  said — it  ought  always  to  be  said,  for  it  is  ' 
true — that  a better  and  more  honorable  offering  is  made  to 
our  Master  in  ministry  to  the  poor,  in  extending  the  knowledge 
of  His  name,  in  the  practice  of  the  virtues  by  which  that  name 
is  hallowed,  than  in  material  presents  to  His  temple.  Assur- 
edly it  is  so  : woe  to  all  who  think  that  any  other  kind  or  man- 
ner of  offering  may  in  any  wise  take  the  place  of  these  ! Do 
the  people  need  place  to  pray,  and  calls  to  hear  His  word  ? 
Then  it  is  no  time  for  smoothing  pillars  or  carving  pulj)its  ; 
let  us  have  enough  first  of  walls  and  roofs.  Do  the  people 
need  teaching  from  house  to  house,  and  bread  from  day  to 
day?  Then  they  are  deacons  and  ministers  we  want,  not 
architects.  I insist  on  this,  I plead  for  this  ; but  let  us  ex- 
amine ourselves,  and  see  if  this  be  indeed  the  reason  for  our 
backwardness  in  the  lesser  work.  The  question  is  not  between 
God’s  house  and  His  poor  : it  is  not  between  God’s  house  and 
His  Gospel.  It  is  between  God’s  house  and  ours.  Have  Ave 
no  tesselated  colors  on  our  floors  ? no  frescoed  fancies  on  our 
roofs  ? no  niched  statuary  in  our  corridors  ? no  gilded  furni- 
ture in  our  chambers  ? no  costly  stones  in  our  cabinets  ? Has 
even  the  tithe  of  these  been  offered  ? They  are,  or  they  ought 
to  be,  the  signs  that  enough  has  been  devoted  to  the  great 
purposes  of  human  stewardship,  and  that  there  remains  to  us 
what  we  can  spend  in  luxury  ; but  there  is  a greater  and 
prouder  luxury  than  this  selfish  one — that  of  bringing  a por- 
tion of  such  things  as  these  into  sacred  service,  and  present- 
ing them  for  a memorial  that  our  pleasure  as  well  as  our  toil 
has  been  hallowed  by  the  remembrance  of  Him  who  gave  both 
the  strength  and  the  reward.  And  until  this  has  been  done, 

I do  not  see  how  such  possessions  can  be  retained  in  happiness. 

I do  not  understand  the  feeling  which  would  arch  our  owni 
gates  and  pave  our  own  thresholds,  and  leave  the  church  wfitlij 
its  naiTow  door  and  foot-worn  sill ; the  feeling  which  enriches* 
* Num.  xxxi.  54.  Psa.  Ixxvi.  11. 


24 


THE  LAMP  OF  PACniFlCE. 


our  own  cliambers  with  all  manner  of  costliness,  and  endures 
the  bare  wall  and  mean  compass  of  the  temple.  There  is  seh 
dom  even  so  severe  a choice  to  be  made,  seldom  so  much  self- 
denial  to  be  exercised.  There  are  isolated  cases,  in  whicli 
men’s  happiness  and  mental  activity  depend  upon  a certain 
degree  of  luxury  in  their  houses  ; but  then  this  is  true  luxury, 
felt  and  tasted,  and  profited  by.  In  the  plurality  of  instaiices 
nothing  of  the  kind  is  attempted,  nor  can  be  enjoyed  ; men’s 
average  resources  cannot  reach  it ; and  that  which  they  can 
reach,  gives  them  no  pleasure,  and  might  be  spared.  It  will 
be  seen,  in  the  course  of  the  following  chapters,  that  I am  no 
advocate  for  meanness  of  private  habitation.  I would  fain  in- 
troduce into  it  all  magnificence,  care,  and  beauty,  where  they 
{ire  possible  ; but  I would  not  have  that  useless  expense  in  un- 
noticed fineries  or  formalities ; cornicings  of  ceilings  and  grain- 
ing of  doors,  and  fringing  of  curtains,  and  thousands  such  ; 
• things  which  have  become  foolishly  and  apathetically  habitual 
— things  on  whose  common  appliance  hang  whole  trades,  to 
which  there  never  yet  belonged  the  blessing  of  giving  one  ray 
of  real  pleasure,  or  becoming  of  the  remotest  or  most  con- 
/ temptible  use — things  which  cause  half  the  expense  of  life,  and 
destroy  more  than  half  its  comfort,  manliness,  respectability, 
freshness,  and  facility.  I speak  from-  experience  : I know 
what  it  is  to  live  in  a cottage  with  a deal  floor  and  roof,  and 
a hearth  of  mica  slate ; and  I know  it  to  be  in  many  respects 
healthier  and  happier  than  living  between  a Turkey  carpet 
and  gilded  ceiling,  beside  a steel  grate  and  polished  fender. 
I do  not  say  that  such  things  have  not  their  place  and  pro= 
priety  ; but  I say  this,  emphatically,  that  the  tenth  part  of 
the  expense  which  is  sacrificed  in  domestic  vanities,  if  not 
absolutely  and  meaninglessly  lost  in  domestic  discomforts,  and 
incumbrances,  would,  if  collectively  offered  and  wisely  em- 
ployed, build  a marble  church  for  every  town  in  England  ; 
such  a church  as  it  should  be  a joy  and  a blessing  even  to 
pass  near  in  our  daily  ways  and  wnlks,  and  as  it  would  bring 
the  light  into  the  eyes  to  see  from  afar,  lifting  its  fair  height 
above  the  purple  crowd  of  humble  roofs. 

VIII.  I have  said  for  every  town  : I do  not  want  a marble 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


25 


clmrcli  for  every  village  ; nay,  I do  not  want  marble  churches 
at  all  for  their  own  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  spirit  that 
would  build  them.  The  church  has  no  need  of  any  visiljle 
splendors  ; her  power  is  independent  of  them,  her  purity  is  in 
some  degree  opposed  to  them.  The  simplicity  of  a pastornl 
sanctuary  is  lovelier  than  the  majesty  of  an  urban  temple  ; 
and  it  may  be  more  than  questioned  whether,  to  the  people, 
such  majesty  has  ever  been  the  source  of  any  increase  of  effec- 
tive piety  ; but  to  the  builders  it  has  been,  and  must  ever  be. 
It  is  not  the  church  w^e  want,  but  the  sacrifice  ; not  the  emo- 
tion of  admiration,  but  the  act  of  adoration  : not  the  gift,  but 
the  giving.'^  And  see  how  much  more  charity  the  full  un- 
derstanding of  this  might  admit,  among  classes  of  men  of 
naturally  opposite  feelings  ; and  how  much  more  nobleness  in 
the  work.  There  is  no  need  to  offend  by  importunate,  self- 
proclaiming splendor.  Your  gift  may  be  given  in  an  unpre- 
suming way.  Cut  one  or  two  shafts  out  of  a porphyry  whose 
preciousness  those  only  would  know  who  would  desire  it  to  be 
so  used  ; add  another  month’s  labor  to  the  undercutting  of  a 
few  capitals,  whose  delicacy  will  not  be  seen  nor  loved  by  one 
beholder  of  ten  thousand  ; see  that  the  simplest  masonry  of 
the  edifice  be  perfect  and  substantial ; and  to  those  who  re- 
gard such  things,  their  witness  will  be  clear  and  impressive  ; 
to  those  who  regard  them  not,  all  will  at  least  be  inoffensive. 
But  do  not  think  the  feeling  itself  a folly,  or  the  act  itself  use- 
less. Of  what  use  was  that  dearly- bought  water  of  the  well 
of  Bethlehem  with  which  the  King  of  Israel  slaked  the  dust 
of  Adullam  ? — yet  was  not  thus  better  than  if  he  had  drunk 
it  ? Of  what  use  was  that  passionate  act  of  Christian  sacrifice, 
against  which,  first  uttered  by  the  false  tongue,  the  very  ob- 
jection we  would  now  conquer  took  a sullen  tone  for  ever  ?  *  * 

So  alsoTet  ugrTrotraf^-o-t  what  use  our  offering  is  to  the  church  : 
it  is  at  least  better  for  us  than  if  it  had  been  retained  for  our- 
selves. It  may  be  better  for  others  also  : there  is,  at  any  rate, 
a chance  of  this  ; though  we  must  always  fearfully  and  widely 
shun  the  thought  that  the  magnificence  of  the  temple  can 
materiallj^  add  to  the  efficiency  of  the  worship  or  to  the  power 

* John  xii.  5. 


THE  LAMP  OF  HACllTFICE. 


‘2G 

of  the  ministry.  Wliatever  we  do,  or  whatever  we  offer,  let  it 
not  interfere  with  the  simplicity  of  the  one,  or  abate,  as  if  re- 
placing, the  zeal  of  the  other.  That  is  the  abuse  and  fallacy 
of  Romanism,  by  which  the  true  spirit  of  Christian  offering  is 
directly  contradicted.  The  treatment  of  the  Papists’  temple  is 
eminently  exhibitory  ; it  is  surface  work  throughout ; and  the 
danger  and  evil  of  their  church  decoration  lie,  not  in  its  reality 
— not  in  the  true  wealth  and  art  of  it,  of  which  the  lower  peo- 
ple are  never  cognizant — but  in  its  tinsel  and  glitter,  in  the 
gilding  of  the  shrine  and  painting  of  the  image,  in  embroidery 
of  dingy  robes  and  crowding  of  imitated  gems  ; all  this  being 
frequently  thrust  forward  to  the  concealment  of  what  is  really 
good  or  great  in  their  buildings.  ^ Of  an  offering  of  gratitude 
whi6h  is  neither  to  be  exhibited  nor  rewarded,  which  is  neither 
j to  win  praise  nor  purchase  salvation,  the  Romanist  (as  such) 
has  no  conception. 

IX.  While,  however,  I would  especially  deprecate  the  im- 
putation of  any  other  acceptableness  or  usefulness  to  the  gift 
itself  than  that  which  it  receives  from  the  spirit  of  its  presen- 
tation, it  may  be  well  to  observe,  that  there  is  a lower  advan- 
tage which  never  fails  to  accompany  a dutiful  observance  of 
uny  right  abstract  principle.  While  the  first  fruits  of  his  pos- 
sessions were  required  from  the  Israelite  as  a testimony  of 
fidelity,  the  payment  of  those  first  fruits  was  nevertheless  re- 
warded, and  that  connectedly  and  specifically,  by  the  increase 
of  those  possessions.  Wealth,  and  length  of  days,  and  peace, 
were  the  promised  and  experienced  rewards  of  his  offering, 
though  they  were  not  to  be  the  objects  of  it.  The  tithe  paid 
into  the  storehouse  was  the  expressed  condition  of  the  bless- 
ing which  there  should  not  be  room  enough  to  receive.  And 
it  will  be  thus  always  : God  never  forgets  any  work  or  labor 
/of  love  ; and  whatever  it  may  be  of  which  the  first  and  best 
proportions  or  powers  have  been  presented  to  Him,  he  will 
hiultiply  and  increase  sevenfold.  Therefore,  though  it  may 
not  be  necessarily  the  interest  of  religion  to  admit  the  service 
of  the  arts,  the  arts  will  never  flourish  until  they  have  been 
primarily  devoted  to  that  service — devoted,  both  by  architect 
and  employer  ; by  the  one  in  scrupulous,  earnest,  affectionate 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


27 


design  ; by  the  other  in  expenditure  at  least  more  frank,  at 
least  less  calculating,  than  that  which  he  would  admit  in  the 
indulgence  of  his  own  private  feelings.  Let  this  principle  be 
but  once  fairly  acknowledged  among  us  ; and  however  it  may 
be  chilled  and  repressed  in  practice,  however  feeble  may  be 
its  real  influence,  however  the  sacredness  of  it  may  be  dimin- 
ished by  counter-workings  of  vanity  and  self-interest,  yet  its 
mere  acknowledgment  would  bring  a reward  ; and  with  our 
present  accumulation  of  means  and  of  intellect,  there  would 
be  such  an  impulse  and  vitality  given  to  art  as  it  has  not  felt 
since  the  thirteenth  century.  And  I do  not  assert  this  as 
other  than  a national  consequence  : I should,  indeed,  expect 
a larger  measure  of  every  great  and  spiritual  faculty  to  be 
always  given  where  those  faculties  had  been  wisely  and  relig- 
iously employed  ; but  the  impulse  to  which  I refer,  would 
be,  humanly  speakiiig,  certain  ; and  would  naturally  result 
from  obedience  to  the  two  great  conditions  enforced  by  the 
Spirit  of  Sacrifice,  first,  that  we  should  in  everything  do  our 
best ; and,  secondly,  that  we  should  consider  increase  of  ap- 
parent labor  as  an  increase  of  beauty  in  the  building.  A few 
practical  deductions  from  these  two  conditions,  and  I have 
done. 

X.  For  the  first : it  is  alone  enough  to  secure  success,  and 
it  is  for  want  of  observing  it  that  we  continually  fail.  We 
are  none  of  us  so  good  architects  as  to  be  able  to  work  habitu- 
ally beneath  our  strength ; and  yet  there  is  not  a building 
tliat  I know  of,  lately  raised,  wherein  it  is  not  sufficiently 
evident  that  neither  architect  nor  builder  has  done  his  best. 
It  is  the  especial  characteristic  of  modern  work.  All  old 
work  nearly  lias  been  hard  work.  It  may  be  the  hard  work 
of  children,  of  barbarians,  of  rustics  ; but  it  is  always  their 
utmost.  Ours  has  as  constantly  the  look  of  money’s  worth, 
of  a stopping  short  wherever  and  whenever  we  can,  of  a lazy 
compliance  with  low  conditions  ; never  of  a fair  putting  forth 
of  our  strength.  Let  us  have  done  with  this  kind  of  work  at 
once  : cast  off  every  temptation  to  it : do  not  let  us  degrade 
ourselves  voluntarily,  and  then  mutter  and  mourn  over  our 
short  comings  ; let  us  confess  our  poverty  or  our  parsimony, 


23 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE, 


but  not  belie  our  liuinan  intellect.  It  is  not  even  a question 
of  how  'much  we  are  to  do,  but  of  how  it  is  to  be  done  ; it  is 
jiot  a question  of  doing  more,  but  of  doing  better.  Do  not 
let  us  boss  our  roofs  with  wretched,  half- worked,  blunt-edged 
rosettes  ; do  not  let  us  flank  our  gates  with  rigid  imitations 
of  medimval  statuary.  SqcIi  things  are  mere  insults  to 
common  sense,  and  only  unfit  us  for  feeling  the  nobility  of 
their  prototypes.  We  have  so  much,  suj^pose,  to  be  sj^ent  in 
decoration  ; let  us  go  to  the  Flaxman  of  his  time,  whoever 
he  may  be,  and  bid  him  carve  for  us  a single  statue,  frieze  or 
capital,  or  as  many  as  we  can  afford,  compelling  upon  him  the 
one  condition,  that  they  shall  be  the  best  he  can  do  ; place 
them  where  they  will  be  of  the  most  value,  and  be  content. 
Our  other  capitals  may  be  mere  blocks,  and  our  other  niches 
empty.  No  matter  : better  our  work  unfinished  than  all  bad. 
It  may  be  that  we  do  not  desire  ornament  of  so  high  an 
order ; choose,  then,  a less  developed  style,  also,  if  you  will, 
rougher  material ; the  law  which  we  are  enforcing  requires 
only  that  what  we  pretend  to  do  and  to  give,  shall  both  be 
the  best  of  their  kind  ; choose,  therefore,  the  Norman  hatchet 
work,  instead  of  the  Flaxman  frieze  and  statue,  but  let  it  be 
the  best  hatchet  work  ; and  if  you  cannot  afford  marble,  use 
Caen  stone,  but  from  the  best  bed  ; and  if  not  stone,  brick, 
but  the  best  brick  ; preferring  always  what  is  good  of  a lower 
order  of  work  or  material,  to  what  is  bad  of  a higher  ; for  this 
is  not  only  the  way  to  improve  every  kind  of  work,  and  to  put 
every  kind  of  material  to  better  use  ; but  it  is  more  honest 
and  unpretending,  and  is  in  harmony  with  other  just,  upright, 
and  manly  princi23les,  whose  range  we  shall  have  j)resently  to 
take  into  consideration. 

XI.  The  other  condition  which  we  had  to  notice,  was  the 
value  of  the  appearance  of  labor  upon  architecture.  I have 
spoken  of  this  before  ; ^ and  it  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  most 
frecjuent  sources  of  pleasure  which  belong  to  the  art,  always, 
however,  within  certain  somewhat  remarkable  limits.  For  it 
does  not  at  first  appear  easily  to  be  explained  why  labor,  as 
represented  by  materials  of  value,  should,  without  sense  of 
* Mod.  Painters,  Part  I.  Sec.  1 , Cliap.  3. 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


29 


wrong  or  error,  bear  being  wasted  ; while  the  waste  of  actual 
workmanship  is  alwa^'S  painful,  so  soon  as  it  is  apparent. 
But  so  it  is,  that,  while  precious  materials  may,  with  a certain 
profusion  and  negligence,  be  employed  for  the  magnificence 
of  what  is  seldom  seen,  the  work  of  man  cannot  be  carelessly 
and  idly  bestowed,  without  an  immediate  sense  of  wrong  ; as 
if  the  strength  of  the  living  creature  were  never  intended  by 
its  Maker  to  be  sacrificed  in  vain,  though  it  is  well  for  us 
sometimes  to  part  with  what  we  esteem  precious  of  sub- 
stance, as  showing  that  in  such  a service  it  becomes  but  dross 
and  dust.  And  in  the  nice  balance  between  the  straitening 
of  effort  or  enthusiasm  on  the  one  hand,  and  vainly  casting  it 
away  upon  the  other,  there  are  more  questions  than  can  be 
met  by  any  but  very  just  and  watchful  feeling.  In  general  it 
is  less  the  mere  loss  of  labor  that  offends  us,  than  the  lack 
of  judgment  implied  by  such  loss  ; so  that  if  men  confessedly 
work  for  work’s  sake,  and  it  does  not  appear  that  they  are  ig- 
norant where  or  how  to  make  their  labor  tell,  we  shall  not  be 
grossly  offended.  On  the  contrary,  we  shall  be  pleased  if  the 
work  be  lost  in  carrying  out  a principle,  or  in  avoiding  a de- 
ception. It,  indeed,  is  a law  properly  belonging  to  another 
part  of  our  subject,  but  it  may  be  allowably  stated  here,  that, 
whenever,  by  the  construction  of  a building,  some  parts  of  it 
are  hidden  from  the  eye  which  are  the  continuation  of  others 
bearing  some  consistent  ornament,  it  is  not  well  that  the  or- 
nament should  cease  in  the  parts  concealed  ; credit  is  given 
for  it,  and  it  should  not  be  deceptively  withdrawn  : as,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  sculpture  of  the  backs  of  the  statues  of  a temple 
pediment  ; never,  perhaps,  to  be  seen,  but  yet  not  lawfully  to 
be  left  unfinished.  And  so  in  the  working  out  of  ornaments 
in  dark  concealed  places,  in  which  it  is  best  to  err  on  the  side 
of  completion  ; and  in  the  canying  round  of  string  courses, 
and  other  such  continuous  work  ; not  but  that  they  may  stop 
sometimes,  on  the  point  of  going  into  some  palpably  impene- 
trable recess,  but  then  let  them  stop  boldly  and  markedly,  on 
some  distinct  terminal  ornament,  and  never  be  supposed  to 
exist  where  they  do  not.  The  arches  of  the  towers  which 
flank  the  transepts  of  Rouen  Cathedral  have  rosette  orna- 


30 


THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


nicnts  on  tlicir  spandrils,  on  the  three  visible  sides  5 none  on 
the  side  towards  the  roof.  The  right  of  this  is  rather  a nice 
2)oijit  for  question. 

Xn.  Visibility,  however,  we  must  remember,  depends,  not 
only  on  situation,  but  on  distance  ; and  there  is  no  way  in 
which  work  is  more  painfully  and  unwisely  lost  than  in  its 
over  delicacy  on  parts  distant  from  the  eye.  Here,  again,  the 
principle  of  honesty  must  govern  our  treatment  : we  must 
not  work  any  kind  of  ornament  which  is,  perhaps,  to  cover 
the  whole  building  (or  at  least  to  occur  on  alljmrts  of  it)  deli- 
cately where  it  is  near  the  eye,  and  rudely  where  it  is  removed 
from  it.  That  is  trickery  and  dishonesty.  Consider,  first, 
what  kinds  of  ornaments  will  tell  in  the  distance  and  what 
near,  and  so  distribute  them,  keeping  such  as  by  their  nature 
are  delicate,  down  near  the  eye,  and  throwing  the  bold  and 
rough  kinds  of  work  to  the  toj)  ; and  if  there  be  any  kind 
which  is  to  be  both  near  and  far  off,  take  care  that  it  be  as 
boldly  and  rudely  wTOught  wdiere  it  is  well  seen  as  wdiere  it 
is  distant,  so  that  the  spectator  may  know  exactly  what  it  is, 
and  what  it  is  worth.  Thus  chequered  patterns,  and  in  gen- 
eral such  ornaments  as  common  workmen  can  execute,  may 
extend  over  the  wdiole*  building  ; but  bas-reliefs,  and  fine 
niches  and  capitals,  should  be  kept  down,  and  the  common 
sense  of  this  wilk always  give  a building  dignity,  even  though 
there  be  some  abruptness  or  awkwardness,  in  the  resulting 
arrangements.  Thus  at  San  Zeno  at  Verona,  the  bas-reliefs, 
full  of  incident  and  interest  are  confined  to  a parallelogram 
of  the  front,  reaching  to  the  height  of  the  caj)itals  of  the  col- 
umns of  the  porch.  Above  these,  we  find  a simple  though 
most  lovely,  little  arcade  ; and  above  that,  only  blank  wall, 
wdth  square  face  shafts.  The  whole  effect  is  tenfold  grander 
and  better  than  if  the  entire  fayade  had  been  covered  with  bad 
■work,  and  may  serve  for  an  example  of  the  way  to  place  little 
where  we  cannot  afford  much.  So,  again,  the  transept  gates 
of  Rouen  * are  covered  with  delicate  bas-reliefs  (of  which  I 

* Henceforward,  for  the  sake  of  convenience,  when  I name  an}'  ca- 
thedral town  in  this  manner,  let  me  be  understood  to  speak  of  its  cathe< 
dral  church. 


TUE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


31 


shall  speak  at  greater  length  presently)  up  to  about  once 
and  a half  a man’s  height ; and  above  that  come  the  usual 
and  more  visible  statues  and  niches.  So  in  the  campanile  at 
Florence,  the  circuit  of  bas-reliefs  is  on  its  lowest  story  ; 
above  that  come  its  statues  ; and  above  them  all  its  pattern 
mosaic,  and  twisted  columns,  exquisitely  finished,  like  all 
Italian  work  of  the  time,  but  still,  in  the  eye  of  the  Floren- 
tine, rough  and  commonplace  by  comparison  with  the  bas- 
reliefs.  So  generally  the  most  delicate  niche  work  and  best 
mouldings  of  the  French  Gothic  are  in  gates  and  low  win- 
dows well  within  sight ; although,  it  being  the  very  spirit  of 
that  style  to  trust  to  its  exuberance  for  eftect,  there  is  occa- 
sionally a burst  upwards  and  blossoming  unrestrainably  to 
the  sky,  as  in  the  pediment  of  the  west  front  of  Kouen,  and 
in  the  recess  of  the  rose  window  behind  it,  where  there  are 
some  most  elaborate  flower- mouldings,  all  but  invisible  from 
below,  and  only  adding  a general  enrichment  to  the  deep 
shadows  that  relieve  the  shafts  of  the  advanced  pediment.  It 
is  observable,  however,  that  'this  very  work  is  bad  flamboyant, 
and  has  corrupt  renaissance  characters  in  its  detail  as  well  as 
use  ; while  in  the  earlier  and  grander  north  and  south  gates, 
there  is  a very  noble  proportioning  of  the  work  to  the  dis- 
tance, the  niches  and  statues  which  crown  the  northern  one, 
at  a height  of  about  one  hundred  feet  from  the  ground,  being 
alike  colossal  and  simple  ; visibly  so  from  below,  so  as  to  in- 
duce no  deception,  and  yet  honestly  and  weU-finished  above, 
and  all  that  they  are  expected  to  be  ; the  features  very  beau- 
tiful, full  of  expression,  and  as  delicately  wrought  as  any 
work  of  the  period. 

Xin.  It  is  to  be  remembered,  however,  that  while  the  orna- 
ments in  every  flne  ancient  building,  without  exception  so  far 
as  I am  aware,  are  most  delicate  at  the  base,  they  are  often 
in  greater  effective  quantity  on  the  upper  parts.  In  high 
towers  this  is  perfectly  natural  and  right,  the  solidity  of  the 
foundation  being  as  necessary  as  the  division  and  penetration 
of  the  superstructure  ; hence  the  lighter  work  and  richly 
pierced  crowns  of  late  Gothic  towers.  The  campanile  of 
Giotto  at  Florence,  already  alluded  to,  is  an  exquisite  instance 


32 


THE  LAMP  OF  AC  RIF  ICE. 


of  the  union  of  the  two  principles,  delicate  bas-reliefs  adorn- 
ing its  massy  foundation,  while  the  open  tracery  of  the  upper 
windows  attracts  the  eye  by  its  slender  intricacy,  and  a rich 
cornice  crowns  the  whole.  In  such  truly  fine  cases  of  this 
disposition  the  U2:)per  work  is  effective  by  its  quantity  and  in- 
tricacy only,  as  the  lower  portions  by  delicacy  ; so  also  in  the 
Tour  de  Beurre  at  Eouen,  where,  however,  the  detail  is  massy 
throughout,  subdividing  into  rich  meshes  as  it  ascends.  In 
the  bodies  of  buildings  the  principle  is  less  safe,  but  its  dis- 
cussion is  not  connected  with  our  present  subject. 

XIV.  Finally,  work  may  be  wasted  by  being  too  good  for 
its  material,  or  too  fine  to  bear  exposure ; and  this,  generally  a 
characteristic  of  late,  especially  of  renaissance,  work,  is  per- 
haps the  worst  fault  of  all.  I do  not  know  anything  more 
painful  or  pitiful  than  the  kind  of  ivory  carving  with  which 
the  Certosa  of  Pavia,  and  part  of  the  Colleone  sepulchral 
chapel  at  Bergamo,  and  other  such  buildings,  are  incrusted, 
of  which  it  is  not  possible  so  much  as  to  think  without  ex- 
haustion ; and  a heavy  sense  of  the  misery  it  would  be,  to  be 
forced  to  look  at  it  at  all.  And  this  is  not  from  the  quantity 
of  it,  nor  because  it  is  bad  work — much  of  it  is  inventive  and 
able  ; but  because  it  looks  as  if  it  were  only  fit  to  be  j^ut  in 
inlaid  cabinets  and  velveted  caskets,  and  as  if  it  could  not 
bear  one  drifting  shower  or  gnawing  frost.  We  are  afraid  for 
it,  anxious  about  it,  and  tormented  by  it ; and  we  feel  that  a 
massy  shaft  and  a bold  shadow  would  be  worth  it  all.  Never- 
theless, even  in  cases  like  these,  much  depends  on  the  accom- 
phshment  of  the  great  ends  of  decoration.  If  the  ornament 
does  its  duty — if  it  fs  ornament,  and  its  points  of  shade  and 
light  tell  in  the  general  effect,  we  shall  not  be  offended  by 
finding  that  the  sculptor  in  his  fulness  of  fancy  has  chosen  to 
give  much  more  than  these  mere  points  of  liglit,  and  has 
composed  them  of  groups  of  figures.  But  if  the  ornament 
does  not  answer  its  purpose,  if  it  have  no  distant,  no  truly 
decorative  power  ; if  generally  seen  it  be  a mere  incrustation 
and  meaningless  roughness,  we  shall  only  be  chagrined  by 
finding  when  we  look  close,  that  the  incrustation  has  cost 
years  of  labor,  and  has  millions  of  figures  and  histories  in  it* 


TUE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE. 


33 


and  would  be  the  better  of  being  seen  through  a Stanhope 
lens.  Hence  the  greatness  of  the  northern  Gothic  as  con- 
trasted with  the  latest  Italian.  It  reaches  nearly  the  same 
extreme  of  detail ; but  it  never  loses  sight  of  its  architectural 
purpose,  never  fails  in  its  decorative  power  ; not  a leaflet  in  it 
but  speaks,  and  speaks  far  off,  too  ; and  so  long  as  this  be 
the  case,  there  is  no  limit  to  the  luxuriance  in  which  such 
work  may  legitimately  and  nobly  be  bestowed. 

XV.  No  limit : it  is  one  of  the  affectations  of  architects  to 
speak  of  overcharged  ornament.  Ornament  cannot  be  over- 
charged if  it  be  good,  and  is  always  overcharged  when  it  is 
bad.  I have  given,  on  the  opposite  page  (fig.  1),  one  of  the 
smallest  niches  of  the  central  gate  of  Rouen.  That  gate  I 
suppose  to  be  the  most  exquisite  piece  of  pure  flamboyant 
work  existing ; for  though  I have  spoken  of  the  upper  por- 
tions, especially  the  receding  window,  as  degenerate,  the  gate 
itself  is  of  a purer  period,  and  has  hardly  any  renaissance 
taint.  There  are  four  strings  of  these  niches  (each  with  tw^o 
figures  beneath  it)  round  the  porch,  from  the  ground  to  the 
top  of  the  arch,  wdth  three  intermediate  rows  of  larger  niches, 
far  more  elaborate  ; besides  the  six  principal  canopies  of  each 
outer  pier.  The  total  number  of  the  subordinate  niches  alone, 
each  worked  like  that  in  the  plate,  and  each  with  a different 
pattern  of  traceries  in  each  compartment,  is  one  hundred  and 
seventy-six.^  Yet  in  all  this  ornament  there  is  not  one  cusp, 
one  finial  that  is  useless — not  a stroke  of  the  chisel  is  in  vain  ; 
the  grace  and  luxuriance  of  it  all  are  visible — sensible  rather 
— even  to  the  uninquiring  eye  ; and  aU  its  minuteness  does 
not  diminish  the  majesty,  while  it  increases  the  mystery,  of 
the  noble  and  unbroken  vault.  It  is  not  less  the  boast  of 
some  styles  that  they  can  bear  ornament,  than  of  others  that 
they  can  do  without  it ; but  w^e  do  not  often  enough  reflect 
that  those  very  styles,  of  so  haughty  simplicity,  owe  part  of 
their  pleasurableness  to  contrast,  and  would  be  wearisome  if 
universal.  They  are  but  the  rests  and  monotones  of  the  art 
it  is  to  its  far  happier,  far  higher,  exaltation  that  w^e  owe 
those  fair  fronts  of  variegated  mosaic,  charged  with  wild  fan- 
cies and  dark  hosts  of  imagery,  thicker  and  quainter  than 
3 


34 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


ever  filled  the  depth  of  midsummer  dream  ; those  vaulted 
gates,  trellised  with  close  leaves  ; those  window-labyrinths  of 
twisted  tracery  and  starry  light ; those  misty  masses  of  mul- 
titudinous pinnacle  and  diademed  tower  ; the  only  witnesses, 
perhaps  that  remain  to  us  of  the  faith  and  fear  of  nations. 
All  else  for  which  the  builders  sacrificed,  has  passed  away — = 
all  their  living  interests,  and  aims,  and  achievements.  We 
know  not  for  what  they  labored,  and  we  see  no  evidence  of 
their  reward.  Victory,  wealth,  authority,  happiness — all  have 
departed,  though  bought  by  many  a bitter  sacrifice.  But  of 
them,  and  their  life,  and  their  toil  upon  the  earth,  one  re- 
ward, one  evidence,  is  left  to  us  in  those  gray  heajis  of  deep- 
wrought  stone.  They  have  taken  with  them  to  the  grave 
their  powers,  their  honors,  and  their  errors  ; but  they  have 
left  us  their  adoration. 


CHAPTER  n. 

THE  LAMP  OF  TEUTH. 

I.  There  is  a marked  likeness  between  the  virtues  of  man 
and  the  enlightenment  of  the  globe  he  inhabits — the  same 
diminishing  gradation  in  vigor  up  to  the  limits  of  their  do- 
mains, the  same  essential  separation  from  their  contraries — 
the  same  twilight  at  the  meeting  of  the  two  : a something 
wider  belt  than  the  line  where  the  world  rolls  into  night,  that 
strange  twilight  of  the  virtues  ; that  dusky  debateable  land, 
wherein  zeal  becomes  impatience,  and  temperance  becomes 
severity,  and  justice  becomes  cruelty,  and  faith  superstition, 
and  each  and  all  vanish  into  gloom. 

Nevertheless,  with  the  greater  number  of  them,  though 
their  dimness  increases  gradually,  we  may  mark  the  moment 
of  their  sunset  ; and,  happily,  may  turn  the  shadow  back  by 
the  way  by  which  it  had  gone  down  : but  for  one,  the  line  of 
the  horizon  is  irregular  and  undefined  ; and  this,  too,  the  very 
equator  and  girdle  of  them  all — Truth  ; that  only  one  of 
which  there  are  no  degrees,  but  breaks  and  rents  continually 
that  pillar  of  the  earth,  yet  a cloudy  pillar  ; that  golden  and 
narrow  line,  which  the  very  powers  and  virtues  that  lean  upon 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


35 


it  bend,  which  policy  and  prudence  conceal,  which  kindness 
and  courtesy  modify,  which  courage  overshadows  with  his 
shield,  imagination  covers  with  her  wings,  and  charity  dims 
with  her  tears.  How  difficult  must  the  maintenance  of  that 
authority  be,  which,  while  it  has  to  restrain  the  hostility  of 
all  the  worst  principles  of  man,  has  also  to  restrain  the  dis- 
orders of  his  best — which  is  continually  assaulted  by  the  one 
and  betrayed  by  the  other,  and  which  regards  with  the  same 
severity  the  lightest  and  the  boldest  violations  of  its  law ! 
There  are  some  faults  slight  in  the  sight  of  love,  some  errors 
slight  in  the  estimate  of  wisdom  ; but  truth  forgives  no 
insult,  and  endures  no  stain. 

We  do  not  enough  consider  this  ; nor  enough  dread  the 
slight  and  continual  occasions  of  offence  against  her.  We 
are  too  much  in  the  habit  of  looking  at  falsehood  in  its  dark- 
est associations,  and  through  the  color  of  its  worst  purposes. 
That  indignation  which  we  profess  to  feel  at  deceit  absolute, 
is  indeed  only  at  deceit  malicious.  We  resent  calumny,  hy- 
pocrisy and  treachery,  because  they  harm  us,  not  because  they 
are  untrue.  Take  the  detraction  and  the  mischief  from  the 
untruth,  and  we  are  little  offended  by  it ; turn  it  into  praise, 
and  we  may  be  pleased  with  it.  And  yet  it  is  not  calumny 
nor  treachery  that  does  the  largest  sum  of  mischief  in  the 
world  : they  are  continually  crushed,  and  are  felt  only  in 
being  conquered.  But  it  is  the  glistening  and  softly  spoken 
lie  ; the  amiable  fallacy  ; the  patriotic  lie  of  the  historian,  the 
provident  lie  of  the  politician,  the  zealous  lie  of  the  partizan, 
the  merciful  lie  of  the  friend,  and  the  careless  lie  of  each  man 
to  himself,  that  cast  that  black  mystery  over  humanity, 
through  which  any  man  who  pierces,  we  thank  as  we  would 
thank  one  who  dug  a well  in  a desert ; happy  in  that  the 
thirst  for  truth  still  remains  with  us,  even  when  we  have  wil- 
fully left  the  fountains  of  it. 

It  would  be  well  if  moralists  less  frequently  confused  the 
greatness  of  a sin  with  its  unpardonableness.  The  two  charac- 
ters are  altogether  distinct.  The  greatness  of  a fault  depends 
partly  on  the  nature  of  the  person  against  whom  it  is  com- 
mitted, partly  upon  the  extent  of  its  consequences.  Its  par- 


TJIE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


sr, 


donableness  depends,  humanly  speaking,  on  the  degree  of 
temptation  to  it.  One  class  of  circumstances  determines  the 
weight  of  the  attaching  punishment ; the  other,  the  claim  to 
remission  of  punishment : and  since  it  is  not  easy  for  men  to 
estimate  the  relative  weight,  nor  j^ossible  for  them  to  know 
the  relative  consequences,  of  crime,  it  is  usually  wise  in  them 
to  quit  the  care  of  such  nice  measurements,  and  to  look  to 
the  other  and  clearer  condition  of  culpability ; esteeming 
those  faults  worst  which  are  committed  under  least  tempta- 
tion. I do  not  mean  to  diminish  the  blame  of  the  injurious 
and  malicious  sin,  of  the  selfish  and  deliberate  falsity  ; yet  it 
seems  to  me,  that  the  shortest  way  to  check  the  darker  forms 
of  deceit  is  to  set  watch  more  scrupulous  against  those  which 
have  mingled,  unregarded  and  unchastised,  with  the  current 
of  our  life.  Do  not  let  us  lie  at  all.  Do  not  think  of  one 
falsity  as  harmless,  and  another  as  slight,  and  another  as  un- 
intended. Cast  them  all  aside  : they  may  be  light  and  acci- 
dental ; but  they  are  an  ugly  soot  from  the  smoke  of  the  pit, 
for  all  that  ; and  it  is  better  that  our  hearts  should  be  swejDt 
clean  of  them,  without  over  care  as  to  which  is  largest  or 
blackest.  Speaking  truth  is  like  writing  fair,  and  comes  only 
by  practice  ; it  is  less  a matter  of  will  than  of  habit,  and  I 
doubt  if  any  occasion  can  be  trivial  which  permits  the  practice 
and  formation  of  such  a habit.  To  speak  and  act  truth  with 
constancy  and  precision  is  nearly  as  difficult,  and  perhaps  as 
meritorious,  as  to  speak  it  under  intimidation  or  penalty  ; 
and  it  is  a strange  thought  how  many  men  there  are,  as  I 
trust,  who  would  hold  to  it  at  the  cost  of  fortune  or  life,  for 
one  who  would  hold  to  it  at  the  cost  of  a little  daily  trouble. 
And  seeing  that  of  all  sin  there  is,  perhaps,  no  one  more  flatly 
opposite  to  the  Almighty,  no  one  more  “wanting  the  good  of 
virtue  and  of  being,”  than  this  of  tying,  it  is  surety  a strange 
insolence  to  fall  into  the  foulness  of  it  on  light  or  on  no  temp- 
tation, and  surety  becoming  an  honorable  man  to  resolve  that, 
whatever  semblances  or  fallacies  the  necessary  course  of  his 
life  may  compel  him  to  bear  or  to  believe,  none  shall  disturb 
the  serenity  of  his  voluntary  actions,  nor  diminish  the  reality 
of  his  chosen  dehghts. 


TUB  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


37 


n.  If  tins  be  just  and  wise  for  truth’s  sake,  much  more  is 
it  necessary  for  the  sake  of  the  delights  over  which  she  has  in- 
fluence. For,  as  I advocated  the  expression  of  the  Spirit  of 
Sacrifice  in  the  acts  and  pleasures  of  men,  not  as  if  thereby 
those  acts  could  further  the  cause  of  religion,  but  because 
most  assuredly  they  might  therein  be  infinitely  ennobled  them- 
selves, so  I would  have  the  Spirit  or  Lamp  of  Truth  clear  in 
the  hearts  of  our  artists  and  handicraftsmen,  not  as  if  the 
truthful  practice  of  handicrafts  could  far  advance  the  cause  of 
truth,  but  because  I would  fain  see  the  handicrafts  themselves 
urged  by  the  spurs  of  chivalry  : and  it  is,  indeed,  marvellous 
to  see  what  power  and  universality  there  is  in  this  single  prin- 
ciple, and  how  in  the  consulting  or  forgetting  of  it  lies  half 
the  dignity  or  decline  of  every  art  and  act  of  man.  I have  be- 
fore endeavored  to  show  its  range  and  power  in  j'lainting  ; and 
I believe  a volume,  instead  of  a chapter,  might  be  written  on 
its  authority  over  all  that  is  great  in  architecture.  But  I must 
be  content  with  the  force  of  instances  few  and  familiar,  beliew 
ing  that  the  occasions  of  its  manifestation  may  be  more  easily 
discovered  by  a desire  to  be  true,  than  embraced  by  an  analy- 
sis of  truth. 

Only  it  is  very  necessary  in  the  outset  to  mark  clearly 
wherein  consists  the  essence  of  fallacy  as  distinguished  from 
supposition. 

III.  For  it  might  be  at  first  thought  that  the  whole  king- 
dom of  imagination  was  one  of  deception  also.  Not  so  : the 
action  of  the  imagination  is  a voluntary  summoning  of  the 
conceptions  of  things  absent  or  impossible  ; and  the  pleasure 
and  nobility  of  the  imagination  partly  consist  in  its  knowledge 
and  contemplation  of  them  as  such,  i.e.  in  the  knowledge  of 
their  actual  absence  or  impossibility  at  the  moment  of  their 
apparent  presence  or  reality.  When  the  imagination  deceives 
it  becomes  madness.  It  is  a noble  faculty  so  long  as  it  con- 
fesses its  own  ideality  ; when  it  ceases  to  confess  this,  it  is 
insanity.  All  the  difference  lies  in  the  fact  of  the  confession, 
in  there  being  no  deception.  It  is  necessary  to  our  rank  as 
spiritual  creatures,  that  we  should  be  able  to  invent  and  to 
behold  what  is  not ; and  to  our  rank  as  moral  creatures. 


38 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


that  we  should  know  and  confess  at  the  same  time  that  it  is 
not. 

IV.  Again,  it  might  be  thought,  and  has  been  thought,  that 
the  whole  art  of  painting  is  nothing  else  than  an  endeavor  to 
deceive.  Not  so  : it  is,  on  the  contrary,  a statement  of  certain 
facts,  in  the  clearest  possible  way.  For  instance  : I desire  to 
give  an  account  of  a mountain  or  of  a rock  ; I begin  by  telling 
its  shape.  But  words  will  not  do  this  distinctly,  and  I draw 
its  shape,  and  say,  “ This  was  its  shape.”  Next : I would  fain 
represent  its  color ; but  words  will  not  do  this  either,  and  I 
dye  the  paper,  and  say,  “ This  was  its  color.”  Such  a process 
may  be  carried  on  until  the  scene  appears  to  exist,  and  a high 
pleasure  may  be  taken  in  its  apparent  existence.  This  is  a 
communicated  act  of  imagination,  but  no  lie.  The  lie  can 
consist  only  in  an  assertion  of  its  existence  (which  is  never  for 
one  instant  made,  implied,  or  believed),  or  else  in  false  state- 
ments of  forms  and  colors  (which  are,  indeed,  made  and  be- 
lieved to  our  great  loss,  continually).  And  observe,  also,  that 
BO  degrading  a thing  is  deception  in  even  the  approach  and 
appearance  of  it,  that  all  painting  which  even  reaches  the 
mark  of  apparent  realization,  is  degraded  in  so  doing.  I have 
enough  insisted  on  this  point  in  another  place. 

V.  The  violations  of  truth,  which  dishonor  poetry  and 
painting,  are  thus  for  the  most  part  confined  to  the  treatment 
of  their  subjects.  But  in  architecture  another  and  a less  sub- 
tle, more  contemptible,  violation  of  truth  is  possible  ; a direct 
falsity  of  assertion  respecting  the  nature  of  material,  or  the 
quantity  of  labor.  And  this  is,  in  the  full  sense  of  the  word, 
wrong  ; it  is  as  truly  deserving  of  reprobation  as  any  other 
moral  delinquency  ; it  is  unworthy  alike  of  architects  and  of 
nations  ; and  it  has  been  a sign,  wherever  it  has  widely  and 
with  toleration  existed,  of  a singular  debasement  of  the  arts  ; 
that  it  is  not  a sign  of  worse  than  this,  of  a general  want  of 
severe  j)robity,  can  be  accounted  for  only  by  our  knowledge 
of  the  strange  separation  wdiich  has  for  some  centuries  existed 
between  the  arts  and  all  other  subjects  of  human  intellect,  as 
matters  of  conscience.  This  withdrawal  of  conscientiousness 
from  among  the  faculties  concerned  with  art,  w'hile  it  has 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH 


30 


destroyed  the  arts  themselves,  has  also  rendered  in  a measure 
nugatory  the  evidence  Avhich  otherwise  they  might  have  pre- 
sented respecting  the  character  of  the  respective  nations  among 
Avhom  they  have  been  cultivated  ; otherwise,  it  might  appear 
more  than  strange  that  a nation  so  distinguished  for  its  gen- 
eral uprightness  and  faith  as  the  English,  should  admit  in 
their  architecture  more  of  pretence,  concealment,  and  deceit, 
than  any  other  of  this  or  of  past  time. 

They  are  admitted  in  thoughtlessness,  but  with  fatal  effect 
upon  the  art  in  which  they  are  practised.  If  there  were  no 
other  causes  for  the  failures  which  of  late  have  marked  every 
great  occasion  for  architectural  exertion,  these  petty  dishon- 
esties would  be  enough  to  account  for  all.  It  is  the  first  step 
and  not  the  least,  towards  greatness  to  do  away  with  these  ; 
the  first,  because  so  evidently  and  easily  in  our  power.  We 
may  not  be  able  to  command  good,  or  beautiful,  or  inventive 
architecture  ; but  Ave  can  command  an  honest  architecture : 
the  meagreness  of  poverty  may  be  pardoned,  the  sternness 
of  utility  respected  ; but  what  is  there  but  scorn  for  the  mean- 
ness of  deception  ? 

VI.  Architectural  Deceits  are  broadly  to  be  considered  un- 
der three  heads  : — 

1st.  The  suggestion  of  a mode  of  structure  or  support, 
other  than  the  true  one  ; as  in  pendants  of  late  Gothic  roofs. 

2d.  The  painting  of  surfaces  to  represent  some  other  ma- 
terial than  that  of  which  they  actually  consist  (as  in  the  mar- 
bling of  wood),  or  the  deceptive  representation  of  sculp  toed 
ornament  upon  them. 

3d.  The  use  of  cast  or  machine-made  ornaments  of  any  kind. 

Now,  it  may  be  broadly  stated,  that  architecture  will  be 
noble  exactly  in  the  degree  in  which  all  these  false  expedients 
are  avoided.  Nevertheless,  there  are  certain  degrees  of  them, 
which,  owing  to  their  frequent  usage,  or  to  other  causes,  have 
so  far  lost  the  nature  of  deceit  as  to  be  admissible  ; as,  for 
instance,  gilding,  which  is  in  architecture  no  deceit,  because 
it  is  therein  not  understood  for  gold  ; while  in  jewellery  it  is 
a deceit,  because  it  is  so  understood,  and  therefore  altogether 
to  be  reprehended.  So  that  there  arise,  in  the  application  of 


40 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


the  strict  rules  of  right,  many  exceptions  and  niceties  of  com 
science  ; which  let  us  as  briefly  as  possible  examine. 

VII.  1st.  Structural  Deceits.  I have  limited  these  to  the 
determined  and  purposed  suggestion  of  a modn  of  support 
other  than  the  true  one.  The  architect  is  not  hound  to  ex- 
hibit structure  ; nor  are  we  to  complain  of  him  for  concealing 
it,  any  more  than  we  should  regret  that  the  outer  surfaces  of 
the  human  frame  conceal  much  of  its  anatomy  ; nevertheless, 
that  building  will  generally  be  the  noblest,  which  to  an  in- 
telligent eye  discovers  the  great  secrets  of  its  structure,  as  an 
animal  form  does,  although  from  a careless  observer  they 
may  be  concealed.  In  the  vaulting  of  a Gothic  roof  it  is  no 
deceit  to  throw  the  strength  into  the  ribs  of  it,  and  make  the 
intermediate  vault  a mere  shell.  Such  a structure  would  be 
presumed  by  an  intelligent  observer,  the  first  time  he  saw 
such  a roof ; and  the  beauty  of  its  traceries  would  be  enhanced 
to  him  if  they  confessed  and  followed  the  lines  of  its  main 
strength.  If,  however,  the  intermediate  shell  were  made  of 
wood  instead  of  stone,  and  whitewashed  to  look  like  the  rest, 
— this  would,  of  course,  be  direct  deceit,  and  altogether  un- 
pardonable. 

There  is,  however,  a certain  deception  necessarily  occur- 
ring in  Gothic  architecture,  which  relates,  not  to  the  points, 
but  to  the  manner,  of  support.  The  resemblance  in  its  shafts 
and  ribs  to  the  external  relations  of  stems  and  branches, 
wdiich  has  been  the  ground  of  so  much  foolish  speculation, 
necessarily  induces  in  the  mind  of  the  spectator  a sense  or 
belief  of  a correspondent  internal  structure  ; that  is  to  say, 
of  a fibrous  and  continuous  strength  from  the  root  into  the 
limbs,  and  an  elasticity  communicated  upwards,  sufficient  for 
the  support  of  the  ramified  2:)ortions.  The  idea  of  the  real 
conditions,  of  a great  weight  of  ceiling  thrown  upon  certain 
narrow,  jointed  lines,  which  have  a tendency  partly  to  be 
crushed,  and  partly  to  separate  and  be  pushed  outwards,  is 
with  difficulty  received  ; and  the  more  so  when  the  pillars 
would  be,  if  unassisted,  too  slight  for  the  weight,  and  are  sup- 
ported by  external  flying  buttresses,  as  in  the  apse  of  Beau- 
vais, and  other  such  achievements  of  the  bolder  Gothic.  Now, 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH 


41 


tliere  is  a nice  question  of  conscience  in  this,  which  we  shall 
hardly  settle  but  by  considering  that,  when  the  mind  is  in- 
formed beyond  the  possibility  of  mistake  as  to  the  true  nature 
of  things,  the  affecting  it  with  a contrary  impression,  however 
distinct,  is  no  dishonesty,  but  on  the  co^jh-ary,  a legitimate 
appeal  to  the  imagination.  For  instance,  the  greater  part  of 
the  happiness  which  we  have  in  contemplating  clouds,  results 
from  the  impression  of  their  having  massive,  luminous,  warm, 
and  mountain-like  surfaces  ; and  our  delight  in  the  sky  fre- 
quently depends  upon  our  considering  it  as  a blue  vault. 
But  we  know  the  contrary,  in  both  instances  ; we  know  the 
cloud  to  be  a damp  fog,  or  a drift  of  snow  flakes  ; and 
the  sky  to  be  a lightless  abyss.  There  is,  therefore,  no 
dishonesty,  while  there  is  much  delight,  in  the  irresistibly 
contrary  impression.  In  the  same  way,  so  long  as  we  see  the 
stones  and  joints,  and  are  not  deceived  as  to  the  points  of 
support  in  any  piece  of  architecture,  we  may  rather  praise 
than  regret  the  dextrous  artifices  which  compel  us  to  feel  as 
if  there  were  fibre  in  its  shafts  and  life  in  its  branches.  Nor 
is  even  the  concealment  of  the  support  of  the  external  but- 
tress reprehensible,  so  long  as  the  pillars  are  not  sensibly  in- 
adequate to  their  duty.  For  the  weight  of  a roof  is  a circum- 
stance of  which  the  spectator  generally  has  no  idea,  and  the 
provisions  for  it,  consequently,  circumstances  whose  neces- 
sity or  adaptation  he  could  not  understand.  It  is  no  deceit, 
therefore,  when  the  weight  to  be  borne  is  necessarily  un- 
known, to  conceal  also  the  means  of  bearing  it,  leaving  only 
to  be  perceived  so  much  of  the  support  as  is  indeed  adequate 
to  the  weight  supposed.  For  the  shafts  do,  indeed,  bear  as 
much  as  they  are  ever  imagined  to  bear,  and  the  system  of 
added  support  is  no  more,  as  a matter  of  conscience,  to  be 
exhibited,  than,  in  the  human  or  any  other  form,  mechanical 
provisions  for  those  functions  which  are  themselves  unper- 
ceived. 

But  the  moment  that  the  conditions  of  weight  are  compre- 
hended, both  truth  and  feeling  require  that  the  conditions 
of  support  should  be  also  comprehended.  Nothing  can  be 
worse,  either  as  judged  by  the  taste  or  the  conscience,  than 


42 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH 


affectedly  inadequate  supports — suspensions  in  air,  and  othe! 
such  tricks  and  vanities.  Mr.  Hope  wisely  reprehends,  for 
this  reason,  the  arrangement  of  the  main  piers  of  St.  Sophia 
at  Constantinople.  King’s  College  Chapel,  Cambridge,  is  a 
piece  of  architectural  juggling,  if  possible  still  more  to  be 
condemned,  because  less  sublime. 

Vni.  With  deceptive  concealments  of  structure  are  to  be 
classed,  though  still  more  blameable,  decej)tive  assumptions  of 
it — the  introduction  of  members  which  should  have,  or  profess 
to  have,  a duty,  and  have  none.  One  of  the  most  general  in- 
stances of  this  will  be  found  in  the  form  of  the  flying  buttress 
ill  late  Gothic.  The  use  of  that  member  is,  of  course,  to  con- 
vey support  from  one  pier  to  another  when  the  plan  of  the 
building  renders  it  necessary  or  desirable  that  the  sujoporting 
masses  should  be  divided  into  groups,  the  most  frequent  neces- 
sity of  this  kind  arising  from  the  intermediate  range  of  chapels 
or  aisles  between  the  nave  or  choir  walls  and  their  supporting 
piers.  The  natural,  healthy,  and  beautiful  arrangement  is  that 
of  a steeply  sloping  bar  of  stone,  sustained  by  an  arch  with  its 
spandril  carried  farthest  down  on  the  lowest  side,  and  djung 
into  the  vertical  of  the  outer  pier  ; that  pier  being,  of  course, 
not  square,  but  rather  a piece  of  wall  set  at  right  angles  to  the 
supported  walls,  and,  if  need  be,  crowned  by  a pinnacle  to  give 
it  greater  weight.  The  whole  arrangement  is  exquisitely  car- 
ried out  in  the  choir  of  Beauvais.  Li  later  Gothic  the  pinnacle 
became  gradually  a decorative  member,  and  was  used  in  all 
places  merely  for  the  sake  of  its  beauty.  There  is  no  objection 
to  this  ; it  is  just  as  lawful  to  build  a pinnacle  for  its  beauty  as 
a tower  ; but  also  the  buttress  became  a decorative  member  ; 
and  was  used,  first,  where  it  was  not  wanted,  and,  secondly,  in 
forms  in  which  it  could  be  of  no  use,  becoming  a mere  tie,  not 
between  the  pier  and  wall,  but  between  the  wall  and  the  top 
of  the  decorative  pinnacle,  thus  attaching  itself  to  the  very 
point  where  its  thrust,  if  it  made  any,  could  not  be  resisted. 
The  most  flagrant  instance  of  this  barbarism  that  1 remember 
(though  it  prevails  partially  in  all  the  spires  of  the  Nether- 
lands), is  the  lantern  of  St.  Ouen  at  Kouen,  where  the  pierced 
buttress,  having  an  ogee  curve,  looks  about  as  much  calculated 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTM. 


43 


to  bear  a thrust  as  a switch  of  willow ; and  the  pinnacles,  huge 
and  richly  decorated,  have  evidently  no  work  to  do  whatsoever, 
but  stand  round  the  central  tower,  like  four  idle  servants,  as 
they  are — heraldic  supporters,  that  central  tower  being  merely 
a hollow  crown,  which  needs  no  more  buttressing  than  a 
basket  does,  Li  fact,  I do  not  know  anything  more  strange  or 
unwise  than  the  praise  lavished  upon  this  lantern  ; it  is  one  of 
the  basest  pieces  of  Gothic  in  Europe  ; its  flamboyant  traceries 
of  the  last  and  most  degraded  forms  and  its  entire  plan  and 
decoration  resejnbling,  and  deserving  little  more  credit  than, 
the  burnt  sugar  ornaments  of  elaborate  confectionery.  There 
are  hardly  any  of  the  magnificent  and  serene  constructions  of 
the  early  Gothic  which  have  not,  in  the  course  of  time,  been 
gradually  thinned  and  pared  away  into  these  skeletons,  which 
sometimes  indeed,  when  their  lines  truly  follow  the  structure 
of  the  original  masses,  have  an  interest  like  that  of  the  fibrous 
framework  of  leaves  from  which  the  substance  has  been  dis- 
solved, but  which  are  usually  distorted  as  well  as  emaciated,  and 
remain  but  the  sickly  phantoms  and  mockeries  of  things  that 
were  ; they  are  to  true  architecture  what  the  Greek  ghost  was 
to  the  armed  and  living  frame  ; and  the  very  winds  that  whis- 
tle through  the  threads  of  them,  are  to  the  diapasoned  echoes 
of  the  ancient  w^alls,  as  to  the  voice  of  the  man  was  the  pining 
of  the  spectre.® 

IX.  Perhaps  the  most  fruitful  source  of  these  kinds  of  cor- 
ruption which  we  have  to  guard  against  in  recent  times,  is  one 
which,  nevertheless,  comes  in  a “ questionable  shape,”  and  of 
wEich  it  is  not  easy  to  determine  the  proper  laws  and  limits  ; 
I mean  the  use  of  iron.  The  definition  of  the  art  of  architect- 
ure, given  in  the  first  chaj^ter,  is  independent  of  its  materials  : 
nevertheless,  that  art  having  been,  up  to  the  begiDning  of  the 
present  century,  practised  for  the  most  part  in  clay,  stone,  or 
wood,  it  has  resulted  that  the  sense  of  proportion  and  the  laws 
of  structure  have  been  based,  the  one  altogether,  the  other  in 
great  part,  on  the  necessities  consequent  on  the  employment 
of  those  materials  ; and  that  the  entire  or  principal  employ- 
ment of  metallic  framework  would,  therefore,  be  generally  felt 
as  a departure  from  the  first  principles  of  the  art.  Abstract- 


44 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


edly  there  appears  no  reason  why  iron  should  not  be  used  aa 
well  as  wood  ; and  the  time  is  probably  near  when  a new  sys- 
tem of  architectural  laws  will  be  developed,  adapted  entirely 
to  metallic  construction.  But  I believe  that  the  tendency  of 
all^2)reseiit  symjjathy  and  association  is  to  limit  the  idea  of 
architecture  to  non-metallic  work  ; and  that  not  without  reason. 
For  architecture  being  in  its  2)erfection  the  earliest,  as  in  its 
elements  it  is  necessarily  the  first,  of  arts,  will  always  precede, 
in  any  barbarous  nation,  the  j^ossession  of  the  science  necessary 
either  for  the  obtaining  or  the  management  of  iron.  Its  first 
existence  and  its  earliest  laws  must,  therefore,  de2:)end  upon  the 
use  of  materials  accessible  in  quantity,  and  on  the  surface  of 
the  earth  ; that  is  to  say,  clay,  wood,  or  stone  : and  as  I think 
it  cannot  but  be  generally  felt  that  one  of  the  chief  dignities  of 
architecture  is  its  historical  use ; and  since  the  latter  is  2)artly 
dej^endent  on  consistency  of  style,  it  will  be  felt  right  to  retain 
as  far  as  may  be,  even  in  periods  of  more  advanced  science, 
the  materials  and  j^rincij^les  of  earlier  ages. 

X.  But  whether  this  be  granted  me  or  not,  the  fact  is,  that 
every  idea  resj^ecting  size,  proportion,  decoration,  or  construc- 
tion, on  which  w’e  are  at  j^resent  in  the  habit  of  acting  or  judg- 
ing, depends  on  j^i’esiqq^osition  of  such  materials : and  as  I 
both  feel  myself  unable  to  escape  the  influence  of  these  j^reju- 
dices,  and  believe  that  my  readers  will  be  equally  so,  it  may 
be  j^erha^^s  j^ermitted  to  me  to  assume  that  true  architecture 
does  not  admit  iron  as  a constructive  material,’  and  that  such 
works  as  the  cast-iron  central  sj^ire  of  Rouen  Cathedral,  or  the 
iron  roofs  and  pillars  of  our  railway  stations,  and  of  some  of 
our  churches,  are  not  architecture  at  all.  Yet  it  is  e\ident 
that  metals  may,  and  sometimes  must,  enter  into  the  construc- 
tion to  a certain  extent,  as  nails  in  wooden  architecture,  and 
therefore  as  legitimately  rivets  and  solderings  in  stone  ; neither 
can  we  weU  deny  to  the  Gothic  architect  the  j)ower  of  sujD^^oi’t- 
ing  statues,  jhnnacles,  or  traceries  by  iron  bars ; and  if  w^e 
grant  this  I do  not  see  how  we  can  help  allowing  Brunelleschi 
his  iron  chain  around  the  dome  of  Florence,  or  the  builders 
of  Salisbury  their  elaborate  iron  binding  of  the  central  tower.  ® 
If.  however,  we  would  not  fall  into  the  old  sophistry  of  the 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTU. 


45 


grains  of  corn  and  the  heap,  we  must  find  a rule  which  may 
enable  us  to  stop  somewhere.  This  rule  is,  I think,  that 
metals  may  be  used  as  a cement  but  not  as  a cupport.  For  as 
cements  of  other  kinds  are  often  so  strong  that  the  stones  may 
easier  be  broken  than  separated,  and  the  wall  becomes  a solid 
mass  without  for  that  reason  losing  the  character  of  architect- 
ure, there  is  no  reason  why,  when  a nation  has  obtained  the 
knowledge  and  practice  of  iron  work,  metal  rods  or  rivets 
should  not  be  used  in  the  place  of  cement,  and  establish  the 
same  or  a greater  strength  and  adherence,  without  in  any  wise 
inducing  departure  from  the  types  and  system  of  architecture 
before  established ; nor  does  it  make  any  difference  except  as 
to  sightliness,  whether  the  metal  bands  or  rods  so  employed, 
be  in  the  body  of  the  wall  or  on  its  exterior,  or  set  as  stays 
and  cross-bands  ; so  only  that  the  use  of  them  be  always  and 
distinctly  one  which  might  be  superseded  by  mere  strength 
of  cement ; as  for  instance  if  a pinnacle  or  muUion  be  propped 
or  tied  by  an  iron  band,  it  is  evident  that  the  iron  only  pre- 
vents the  separation  of  the  stones  by  lateral  force,  which  the 
cement  would  have  done,  had  it  been  strong  enough.  But  the 
moment  that  the  iron  in  the  least  degree  takes  the  place  of 
the  stone,  and  acts  by  its  resistance  to  crushing,  and  bears 
superincumbent  weight,  or  if  it  acts  by  its  own  weight  as  a 
counterpoise,  and  so  supersedes  the  use  of  pinnacles  or  but- 
tresses in  resisting  a lateral  thrust,  or  if,  in  the  form  of  a rod 
or  girder,  it  is  used  to  do  what  wooden  beams  would  have 
done  as  well,  that  instant  the  building  ceases,  so  far  as  such 
apphcations  of  metal  extend,  to  be  true  architecture. 

XI.  The  limit,  however,  thus  determined,  is  an  ultimate 
one,  and  it  is  well  in  all  things  to  be  cautious  how  we  approach 
the  utmost  limit  of  lawfulness  ; so  that,  although  the  employ- 
ment of  metal  within  this  limit  cannot  be  considered  as  de- 
stroying the  very  being  and  nature  of  architecture,  it  will,  if, 
extravagant  and  frequent,  derogate  from  the  dignity  of  the 
work,  as  well  as  (which  is  especially  to  our  present  point)  from 
its  honesty.  For  although  the  spectator  is  not  informed  as  to 
the  quantity  or  strength  of  the  cement  employed,  he  will  gen- 
erally conceive  the  stones  of  the  building  to  be  separable ; 


46 


TUE  LAMP  OF  TRV m. 


and  his  estimate  of  the  shill  of  the  architect  will  be  based  in  a 
great  measure  on  his  sup^josition  of  this  condition,  and  of  the  dif- 
ficulties attendant  upon  it : so  that  it  is  always  more  honorable^ 
and  it  has  a tendency  to  render  the  style  of  architecture  both 
more  masculine  and  more  scientific,  to  employ  stone  and  mortar 
simply  as  such,  and  to  do  as  much  as  possible  with  the  weight 
of  the  one  and  the  strength  of  the  other,  and  rather  sometimes 
to  forego  a grace,  or  to  confess  a weakness,  than  attain  the  one, 
or  conceal  the  other,  by  means  verging  upon  dishonesty. 

Nevertheless,  where  the  design  is  of  such  delicacy  and 
slightness  as,  in  some  parts  of  very  fair  and  finished  edifices, 
it  is  desirable  that  it  should  be  ; and  where  both  its  com- 
ifi.etion  and  security  are  in  a measure  dej^endent  on  the  use 
of  metal,  let  not  such  use  be  reprehended ; so  only  that  as 
much  is  done  as  may  be,  by  good  mortar  and  good  masonry  ; 
and  no  slovenly  workmanship  admitted  through  confidence 
in  the  iron  helps ; for  it  is  in  this  license  as  in  that  of  wine, 
a man  may  use  it  for  his  infirmities,  but  not  for  his  nourish- 
ment. 

XII.  And,  in  order  to  avoid  an  over  use  of  this  liberty,  it 
would  be  well  to  consider  what  application  may  be  conven- 
iently made  of  the  dovetailing  and  various  adjusting  of  stones  ; 
for  when  any  artifice  is  necessary  to  help  the  mortar,  certainly 
this  ought  to  come  before  the  use  of  metal,  for  it  is  both 
safer  and  more  honest.  I cannot  see  that  any  objection  can 
be  made  to  the  fitting  of  the  stones  in  any  shapes  the  archi- 
tect pleases  : for  although  it  would  not  be  desirable  to  see 
buildings  put  together  like  Chinese  puzzles,  there  must  al- 
wa^'s  be  a check  upon  such  an  abuse  of  the  practice  in  its 
difficulty  ; nor  is  it  necessary  that  it  should  be  always  ex- 
hibited, so  that  it  be  understood  by  the  spectator  as  an  ad- 
mitted help,  and  that  no  principal  stones  are  introduced  in 
IDOsitions  apparently  impossible  for  them  to  retain,  although 
a riddle  here  and  there,  in  unimportant  features,  may  some- 
times serve  to  draw  the  eye  to  the  masonry,  and  make  it  in- 
teresting, as  well  as  to  give  a delightful  sense  of  a kind  of 
necromantic  power  in  the  architect.  There  is  a pretty  one 
in  the  lintel  of  the  lateral  door  of  the  cathedral  of  Prato 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


47 


(Plate  IV.  fig.  4.)  ; where  the  maintenance  of  the  visibly 
separate  stones,  alternate  marble  and  serpentine,  cannot  be 
understood  until  their  cross-cutting  is  seen  below.  Each 
block  is,  of  course,  of  the  form  given  in  fig.  5. 

Xni.  Lastly,  before  leaving  the  subject  of  structural  de- 
ceits, I would  remind  the  architect  who  thinks  that  I am  un- 
necessarily and  narrowly  limiting  his  resources  or  his  art, 
that  the  highest  greatness  and  the  highest  wisdom  are  shown, 
the  first  by  a noble  submission  to,  the  second  by  a thoughtful 
providence  for,  certain  voluntarily  admitted  restraints.  Noth- 
ing is  more  evident  than  this,  in  that  supreme  government 
which  is  the  example,  as  it  is  the  centre,  of  all  others.  The 
Divine  Wisdom  is,  and  can  be,  shown  to  us  only  in  its  meeting 
and  contending  with  the  difficulties  which  are  voluntarily,  and 
for  the  sake  of  that  contest,  admitted  by  the  Divine  Omnipo- 
tence : and  these . difficulties,  observe,  occur  in  the  form  of 
natural  laws  or  ordinances,  wffiich  might,  at  many  times  and 
in  countless  ways,  be  infringed  with  apparent  advantage,  but 
which  are  never  infringed,  whatever  costly  arrangements  or 
adaptations  their  observance  may  necessitate  for  the  accom- 
plishment of  given  purposes.  The  example  most  apposite  to 
our  present  subject  is  the  structure  of  the  bones  of  animals. 
No  reason  can  be  given,  I believe,  why  the  system  of  the 
higher  animals  should  not  have  been  made  capable,  as  that  of 
the  Infusoria  is,  of  secreting  flint,  instead  of  phosphate  of 
lime,  or  more  naturally  still,  carbon  ; so  framing  the  bones  of 
adamant  at  once.  The  elephant  or  rhinoceros,  had  the  earthy 
part  of  their  bones  been  made  of  diamond,  might  have  been 
as  agile  and  light  as  grasshoppers,  and  other  animals  might 
have  been  framed  far  more  magnificently  colossal  than  any 
that  walk  the  earth.  In  other  worlds  we  may,  perhaps,  sec 
such  creations  ; a creation  for  every  element,  and  elements  in- 
finite. But  the  architecture  of  animals  here,  is  appointed  by 
God  to  be  a marble  architecture,  not  a flint  nor  adamant 
architecture  ; and  all  manner  of  expedients  are  adopted  to  at- 
tain the  utmost  degree  of  strength  and  size  possible  under 
that  great  limitation.  The  jaw  of  the  ichthyosaurus  is  pieced 
and  riveted,  the  leg  of  the  megatherium  is  a foot  thick,  and 


48 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUm. 


tliG  head  of  the  myodon  has  a double  skull ; we,  in  our  wis- 
dom, should,  doubtless,  have  given  the  lizard  a steel  jaw,  and 
the  myodon  a cast-iron  headpiece,  and  forgotten  the  great 
principle  to  which  all  creation  bears  witness,  that  order  and 
system  are  nobler  things  than  power.  But  God  shows  us  in 
Himself,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  not  only  authoritative  per- 
fection, but  even  the  perfection  of  Obedience — an  obedience 
to  His  own  laws  : and  in  the  cumbrous  movement  of  those 
unwieldiest  of  His  creatures  we  are  reminded,  even  in  His 
divine  essence,  of  that  attribute  of  uprightness  in  the  Im- 
man  creature  “ that  sweareth  to  his  own  hurt  and  changeth 
not.” 

XIV.  2d.  Surface  Deceits.  These  may  be  generally  defined 
as  the  inducing  the  supposition  of  some  form  or  material 
which  does  not  actually  exist ; as  commonly  in  the  painting 
of  wood  to  rei^resent  marble,  or  in  the  painting  of  ornaments 
in  deceptive  relief,  &c.  But  we  must  be  careful  to  observe, 
that  the  evil  of  them  consists  always  in  definitely  attempted 
decejAion,  and  that  it  is  a matter  of  some  nicety  to  mark  the 
point  where  deception  begins  or  ends. 

Thus,  for  instance,  the  roof  of  Milan  Cathedral  is  seemingly 
covered  with  elaborate  fan  tracery,  forcibly  enough  painted  to 
enable  it,  in  its  dark  and  removed  position,  to  deceive  a care- 
less observer.  This  is,  of  course,  gross  degradation  ; it  de- 
stroys much  of  the  dignity  even  of  the  rest  of  the  building, 
and  is  in  the  very  strongest  terms  to  be  reprehended. 

The  roof  of  the  Sistine  Chapel  has  much  architectural  de- 
sign in  grissaille  mingled  with  the  figures  of  its  frescoes  ; and 
the  effect  is  increase  of  dignity. 

In  what  lies  the  distinctive  character? 

In  two  points,  principally  : — First.  That  the  architecture 
is  so  closely  associated  with  the  figures,  and  has  so  grand  fel- 
lowship with  them  in  its  forms  and  cast  shadow^s,  that  both 
are  at  once  felt  to  be  of  a 2:iiece  ; and  as  the  figures  must  neces- 
sarily be  painted,  the  architecture  is  known  to  be  so  too. 
There  is  thus  no  deception. 

Second.  That  so  great  a painter  as  Michael  Angelo  would  ' 
always  stop  short  in  such  minor  parts  of  his  design,  of  the  de* 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


49 


gree  of  vulgar  force  wliicli  would  be  necessary  to  induce  the 
supi^osition  of  their  reality ; and,  strangely  as  it  may  sound^ 
would  never  paint  badly  enough  to  deceive. 

But  though  right  and  wrong  are  thus  found  broadly  opposed 
in  works  severally  so  mean  and  so  mighty  as  the  roof  of  Milan 
and  that  of  the  Sistine,  there  are  works  neither  so  great  nor  so 
mean,  in  which  the  limits  of  right  are  vaguely  defined,  and 
will  need  some  care  to  determine  ; care  only,  however,  to  ap- 
ply accurately  the  broad  principle  with  which  we  set  out,  that 
no  form  nor  material  is  to  be  deceptively  represented. 

XV.  Evidently,  then,  painting,  confessedly  such,  is  no  de- 
ception ; it  does  not  assert  any  material  whatever.  Whether 
it  be  on  wood  or  on  stone,  or,  as  will  naturally  be  supposed, 
on  plaster,  does  not  matter.  Whatever  the  material,  good 
painting  makes  it  more  precious  ; nor  can  it  ever  be  said  to 
deceive  respecting  (lie  ground  of  which  it  giyes  us  no  informa- 
tion. To  cover  brick  with  plaster,  and  this  plaster  with  fresco, 
is,  therefore,  perfectly  legitimate  ; and  as  desirable  a mode  of 
decoration  as  it  is  constant  in  the  great  periods.  Verona  and 
Venice  are  now  seen  deprived  of  more  than  half  their  former 
S23lendor ; it  dejoended  far  more  on  their  frescoes  than  their 
marbles.  The  jolaster,  in  this  case,  is  to  be  considered  as  the 
gesso  ground  on  panel  or  canvas.  But  to  cover  brick  with 
cement,  and  to  divide  this  cement  with  joints  that  it  may  look 
like  stone,  is  to  tell  a falsehood  ; and  is  just  as  contemptible  a 
procedure  as  the  other  is  noble. 

It  being  lawful  to  2)aint  then,  is  it  lawful  to  paint  every- 
thing ? So  long  as  the  painting  is  confessed — yes  ; but  if, 
even  in  the  slightest  degree,  the  sense  of  it  be  lost,  and  the 
thing  painted  be  supposed  real — no.  Let  us  take  a few  in- 
stances. In  the  Campo  Santo  at  Pisa,  each  fresco  is  sm-- 
rounded  with  a border  comjDOsed  of  flat  colored  patterns  of 
great  elegance — no  part  of  it  in  attemj^ted  relief.  The  cer- 
tainty of  flat  surface  being  thus  secured,  the  figures,  though 
the  size  of  life,  do  not  deceive,  and  the  artist  thenceforward  is 
at  liberty  to  jout  forth  his  whole  230 wer,  and  to  lead  us  througli 
fields  and  groves,  and  de2oths  of  pleasant  landscape,  and  to 
soothe  us  with  the  sweet  clearness  of  far  off  sky,  and  yet 
4 


50 


THE  LAMP  OF  TllUTlL 


never  lose  the  severity  of  his  i^mal  purpose  of  architectural 
decoration. 

In  the  Camera  di  Correggio  of  San  Lodovico  at  Parma,  th« 
trellises  of  vine  shadow  the  walls,  as  if  with  an  actual  arbor  ; 
and  the  troops  of  children,  peeping  through  the  oval  open- 
ings, luscious  in  color  and  faint  in  light,  may  well  be  ex- 
pected every  instant  to  break  through,  or  hide  behind  the 
covert.  The  grace  of  their  attitudes,  and  the  evident  great- 
ness of  the  whole  work,  mark  that  it  is  painting,  and  barely 
redeem  it  from  the  charge  of  falsehood  ; but  even  so  saved, 
it  is  utterly  unworthy  to  take  a place  among  noble  or  legiti- 
mate architectural  decoration. 

In  the  cuj^ola  of  the  duomo  of  Parma  the  same  painter  has 
represented  the  Assumption  with  so  much  deceptive  power, 
that  he  has  made  a dome  of  some  thirty  feet  diameter  look 
like  a cloud- wrapt  opening  in  the  seventh  heaven,  crowded 
with  a rushing  sea  of  angels.  Is  this  wrong?  Not  so  : for 
the  subject  at  once  precludes  the  possibility  of  deception. 
We  might  have  taken  the  vines  for  a veritable  pergoda,  and 
the  children  for  its  haunting  ragazzi  ; but  we  know  the  stayed 
clouds  and  moveless  angels  must  be  man’s  work  ; let  him  put 
his  utmost  strength  to  it  and  welcome,  he  can  enchant  us^ 
but  cannot  betray. 

We  may  thus  apj^ly  the  rule  to  the  highest,  as  well  as  the 
art  of  daily  occurrence,  always  remembering  that  more  is  to 
be  forgiven  to  the  great  painter  than  to  the  mere  decorative 
workman  ; and  this  especially,  because  the  former,  even  in 
deceptive  portions,  will  not  trick  us  so  grossly  ; as  we  have 
just  seen  in  Correggio,  where  a worse  painter  would  have 
made  the  thing  look  like  life  at  once.  There  is,  how^ever,  in 
room,  villa,  or  garden  decoration,  some  fitting  admission  of 
trickeries  of  this  kind,  as  of  pictured  landscapes  at  the  ex- 
tremities of  alleys  and  arcades,  and  ceilings  like  skies,  or 
painted  with  prolongations  upwards  of  the  architecture  of  the 
walls,  which  things  have  sometimes  a certain  luxury  and 
pleasureableness  in  places  meant  for  idleness,  and  are  in- 
nocent enough  as  long  as  they  are  regarded  as  mere  toys. 

XVI.  Touching  the  false  representation  of  material,  the 


THE  LAME  OF  TUUTIl 


51 


question  is  infinitely  more  simple,  and  tlie  law  more  sweep- 
ing ; all  sucli  imitations  are  utterly  base  and  inadmissible^ 
It  is  melancholy  to  think  of  the  time  and  expense  lost  in 
marbling  the  shop  fronts  of  London  alone,  and  of  the  waste 
of  our  resources  in  absolute  vanities,  in  things  about  which 
no  mortal  cares,  by  which  no  eye  is  ever  arrested,  unless 
painfully,  and  which  do  not  add  one  whit  to  comfort  or  clean- 
liness, or  even  to  that  great  object  of  commercial  art — con- 
spicuoLisness.  But  in  architecture  of  a higher  rank,  how 
much  more  is  it  to  be  condemned  ? I have  made  it  a rule  in 
the  present  work  not  to  blame  specifically ; but  I may,  per- 
haps, be  permitted,  wdiile  I express  my  sincere  admiration  of 
the  very  noble  entrance  and  general  architecture  of  the 
British  Museum,  to  express  also  my  regret  that  the  noble 
granite  foundation  of  the  staircase  should  be  mocked  at  its 
landing  by  an  imitation,  the  more  blameable  because  tolerably 
successful.  The  only  effect  of  it  is  to  cast  a suspicion  upon 
the  true  stones  below,  and  upon  every  bit  of  granite  after- 
wards encountered.  One  feels  a doubt,  after  it,  of  the  honesty 
of  Memnon  himself.  But  even  this,  however  derogatory  to 
the  noble  architecture  around  it,  is  less  painful  than  the 
want  of  feeling  with  which,  in  our  cheap  modern  churches, 
we  suffer  the  wall  decorator  to  erect  about  the  altar  frame- 
works and  pediments  daubed  with  mottled  color,  and  to  dye 
in  the  same  fashions  such  skeletons  or  caricatures  of  columns 
as  may  emerge  above  the  pews  ; this  is  not  merely  bad  taste  ; 
it  is  no  unimportant  or  excusable  error  which  brings  even 
these  shadows  of  vanity  and  falsehood  into  the  house  of 
prayer.  The  first  condition  which  just  feeling  requires  in 
church  furniture  is,  that  it  should  be  simple  and  unaffected, 
not  fictitious  nor  tawdry.  It  may  be  in  our  power  to  make  it 
beautiful,  but  let  it  at  least  be  pure  ; and  if  w^e  cannot  permit 
much  to  the  architect,  do  not  let  us  permit  anything  to  the 
upholsterer  ; if  we  keep  to  solid  stone  and  solid  wood,  white- 
washed, if  we  like,  for  cleanliness’  sake  (for  whitewash  has  so 
often  been  used  as  the  dress  of  noble  things  that  it  has  thence 
received  a kind  of  nobility  itself),  it  must  be  a bad  design  in- 
deed which  is  grossly  offensive.  I recollect  no  instance  of  a 


62 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


want  of  sacred  character,  or  of  any  marked  and  painful  ugliness, 
in  the  simplest  or  the  most  awkwardly  built  village  church, 
where  stone  and  wood  were  roughly  and  nakedly  used,  and  tho 
windows  latticed  with  white  glass.  But  the  smoothly  stuc- 
coed walls,  the  flat  roofs  with  ventilator  ornaments,  the 
barred  windows  with  jaundiced  borders  and  dead  ground 
square  panes,  the  gilded  or  bronzed  wood,  the  painted  iron, 
the  wretched  upholstery  of  curtains  and  cushions,  and  pew 
heads  and  altar  railings,  and  Birmingham  metal  candlesticks, 
and,  above  all,  the  green  and  yellow  sickness  of  the  false 
marble — disguises  all,  observe  ; falsehoods  all — who  are  they 
who  like  these  things  ? who  defend  them  ? who  do  them  ? I 
have  never  spoken  to  any  one  who  did  hke  them,  though  to 
many  w'ho  thought  them  matters  of  no  consequence.  Per- 
haps not  to  religion  (though  I cannot  but  believe  that  there 
are  many  to  whom,  as  to  myself,  such  things  are  serious  ob- 
stacles to  the  repose  of  mind  and  temper  which  should  pre- 
cede devotional  exercises) ; but  to  the  general  tone  of  our 
judgment  and  feeling — yes;  for  assuredly  we  shall  regard, 
with  tolerance,  if  not  with  affection,  whatever  forms  of  ma- 
terial things  we  have  been  in  the  habit  of  associating  with  our 
worship,  and  be  little  prepared  to  detect  or  blame  hypocrisy, 
meanness,  and  disguise  in  other  kinds  of  decoration  when  we 
suffer  objects  belonging  to  the  most  solemn  of  all  services  to 
be  tricked  out  in  a fashion  so  fictitious  and  unseemly. 

XVII.  Painting,  however,  is  not  the  only  mode  in  which 
material  may  be  concealed,  or  rather  simulated  ; for  merely 
to  conceal  is,  as  we  have  seen,  no  wrong.  Whitewash,  for  in- 
stance, though  often  (by  no  means  always)  to  be  regretted  as 
a concealment,  is  not  to  be  blamed  as  a falsity.  It  shows  it- 
self for  what  it  is,  and  asserts  nothing  of  what  is  beneath  it. 
Gilding  has  .become,  from  its  frequent  use,  equally  innocent. 
It  is  understood  for  what  it  is,  a film  merely,  and  is,  therefore, 
allowable  to  any  extent.  I do  not  say  exjDeclient : it  is  one  of 
the  most  abused  means  of  magnificence  we  possess,  and  I 
much  doubt  whether  any  use  we  ever  make  of  it,  balances 
that  loss  of  pleasure,  which,  from  the  frequent  sight  and  per- 
petual suspicion  of  it,  we  suffer  in  the  contemplation  of  any> 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


53 


thing  that  is  verily  of  gold.  I think  gold  was  meant  to  be  sel- 
dom seen  and  to  be  admired  as  a precious  thing ; and  I some- 
times wish  that  truth  should  so  far  literally  prevail  as  that  all 
should  be  gold  that  glittered,  or  rather  that  nothing  should 
glitter  that  was  not  gold.  Nevertheless,  nature  herself  does 
not  dispense  with  such  semblance,  but  uses  light  for  it ; and 
I have  too  great  a love  for  old  and  saintly  art  to  part  with  its 
burnished  field,  or  radiant  nimbus  ; only  it  should  be  used 
with  respect,  and  to  express  magnificence,  or  sacredness,  and 
not  in  lavish  vanity,  or  in  sign  painting.  Of  its  expedience, 
however,  any  more  than  of  that  of  color,  it  is  not  here  the  place 
to  speak  ; we  are  endeavoring  to  determine  what  is  lawful,  not 
what  is  desirable.  Of  other  and  less  common  modes  of  dis- 
guising surface,  as  of  powder  of  lapis  lazuli,  or  mosaic  imita- 
tions of  colored  stones,  I need  hardly  speak.  The  rule  will 
apply  to  all  alike,  that  whatever  is  pretended,  is  wrong  ; com- 
monly enforced  also  by  the  exceeding  ugliness  and  insufficient 
appearance  of  such  methods,  as  lately  in  the  style  of  renova- 
tion by  which  half  the  houses  in  Venice  have  been  defaced, 
the  brick  covered  first  with  stucco,  and  this  painted  with 
zigzag  veins  in  imitation  of  alabaster.  But  there  is  one  more 
form  of  architectural  fiction,  which  is  so  constant  in  the  great 
periods  that  it  needs  respectful  judgment.  I mean  the  facing 
of  brick  with  precious  stone. 

XVIII.  It  is  well  known,  that  what  is  meant  by  a church’s 
being  built  of  marble  is,  in  nearly  all  cases,  only  that  a veneer- 
ing of  marble  has  been  fastened  on  the  rough  brick  wall,  built 
with  certain  projections  to  receive  it ; and  that  what  appear 
to  be  massy  stones,  are  nothing  more  than  external  slabs. 

Now,  it  is  evident,  that,  in  this  case,  the  question  of  right 
is  on  the  same  ground  as  in  that  of  gilding.  If  it  be  clearly 
understood  that  a marble  facing  does  not  pretend  or  imply  a 
marble  wall,  there  is  no  harm  in  it ; and  as  it  is  also  evident 
that,  when  very  precious  stones  are  used,  as  jaspers  and  ser- 
pentines, it  must  become,  not  only  an  extravagant  and  vain 
increase  of  expense,  but  sometimes  an  actual  impossibility,  to 
obtain  mass  of  them  enough  to  build  -with,  there  is  no  resource 
but  this  of  veneering  ; nor  is  there  anything  to  be  alleged 


54 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH 


.against  it  on  tlio  head  of  durability,  sucli  work  having  been 
by  experience  found  to  last  as  long,  and  in  as  perfect  condi- 
tion, as  any  kind  of  masonry.  It  is,  therefore,  to  be  considered 
as  simply  an  art  of  mosaic  on  a large  scale,  the  ground  being 
of  brick,  or  any  other  material ; and  when  lovely  stones  are  to 
be  obtained,  it  is  a manner  which  should  be  thoroughly  under- 
stood, and  often  practised.  Nevertheless,  as  we  esteem  the 
shaft  of  a column  more  highly  for  its  being  of  a single  block, 
and  as  we  do  not  regret  the  loss  of  substance  and  value  which 
there  is  in  things  of  solid  gold,  silver,  agate,  or  ivory  ; so  I 
think  the  walls  themselves  may  be  regarded  with  a more  just 
comjDlacency  if  they  are  known  to  be  all  of  noble  substance  ; 
and  that  rightly  weighing  the  demands  of  the  two  princijjles 
of  which  we  have  hitherto  spoken — Sacrifice  and  Truth,  we 
should  sometimes  rather  spare  external  ornament  than  dimin- 
ish the  unseen  value  and  consistency  of  what  we  do  ; and  I 
believe  that  a better  manner  of  design,  and  a more  careful  and 
studious,  if  less  abundant  decoration  would  follow,  upon  the 
consciousness  of  thoroughness  in  the  substance.  And,  indeed, 
this  is  to  be  remembered,  with  respect  to  all  the  points  we 
have  examined  ; that  while  we  have  traced  the  limits  of  license, 
we  have  not  fixed  those  of  that  high  rectitude  which  refuses 
license.  It  is  thus  true  that  there  is  no  falsity,  and  much 
beauty  in  the  use  of  external  color,  and  that  it  is  lawful  to  paint 
either  pictures  or  patterns  on  whatever  surfaces  may  seem  to 
need  enrichment.  But  it  is  not  less  true,  that  such  practices 
are  essentially  unarchitectural ; and  while  we  cannot  say  that 
there  is  actual  danger  in  an  over  use  of  them,  seeing  that  they 
have  been  always  used  most  lavishly  in  the  times  of  most  noble 
art,  yet  they  divide  the  work  into  two  parts  and  kinds,  one  of 
less  durability  than  the  other,  which  dies  away  from  it  in  pro- 
cess of  ages,  and  leaves  it,  unless  it  have  noble  qualities  of  its 
own,  naked  and  bare.  That  enduring  noblesse  I should,  there- 
fore, call  truly  architectural ; and  it  is  not  until  this  has  been 
secured  that  the  accessory  power  of  painting  may  be  called  in, 
for  the  delight  of  the  immediate  time  ; nor  this,  as  I think, 
until  every  resource  of  a more  stable  kind  has  been  exhausted. 
The  true  colors  of  architecture  are  those  of  natural  stone,  and 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


55 


I would  fain  see  these  taken  advantage  of  to  the  full.  Every  ^ 
variety  of  hue,  from  pale  yellow  to  purple,  passing  through 
orange,  red,  and  brown,  is  entirely  at  our  command  ; nearly 
every  kind  of  green  and  gray  is  also  attainable  : and  with 
these,  and  pure  white,  what  harmonies  might  we  not  achieve  ? 
Of  stained  and  variegated  stone,  the  quantity  is  unlimited,  the 
kinds  innumerable  ; where  brighter  colors  are  required,  let 
glass,  and  gold  protected  by  glass,  be  used  in  mosaic — a kind 
of  work  as  durable  as  the  solid  stone,  and  incapable  of  losing 
its  lustre  by  time — and  let  the  painter’s  work  be  reserved  for 
the  shadowed  loggia  and  inner  chamber.  This  is  the  true  and 
faithful  way  of  building  ; where  this  cannot  be,  the  device  of 
external  coloring  may,  indeed,  be  employed  without  dishonor  ; 
but  it  must  be  with  the  warning  reflection,  that  a time  will 
come  when  such  aids  must  pass  away,  and  when  the  building 
will  be  judged  in  its  lifelessness,  dying  the  death  of  the  dob 
phin.  Better  the  less  bright,  more  enduring  fabric.  The 
transparent  alabasters  of  San  Miniato,  and  the  mosaics  of  St. 
Mark’s,  are  more  warmly  filled,  and  more  brightly  touched,  by 
every  return  of  morning  and  evening  rays  ; while  the  hues  of 
our  cathedrals  have  died  like  the  iris  out  of  the  cloud  ; and 
the  temples  whose  azure  and  purple  once  flamed  above  the 
Grecian  promontories,  stand  in  their  faded  whiteness,  like 
snows  which  the  sunset  has  left  cold. 

XIX.  The  last  form  of  fallacy  which  it  will  be  remembered 
we  had  to  deprecate,  was  the  substitution  of  cast  or  machine 
work  for  that  of  the  hand,  generally  expressible  as  Operative 
Deceit. 

There  are  two  reasons,  both  weighty,  against  this  practice  ; 
one,  that  all  cast  and  machine  work  is  bad,  as  work  ; the 
other,  that  it  is  dishonest.  Of  its  badness,  I shall  speak  in 
another  place,  that  being  evidently  no  efficient  reason  against 
its  use  when  other  cannot  be  had.  Its  dishonesty,  however^ 
which,  to  my  mind,  is  of  the  grossest  kind,  is,  I think,  a suffi- 
cient reason  to  determine  absolute  and  unconditional  rejec- 
tion of  it. 

Ornament,  as  I have  often  before  observed,  has  two  en- 
tirely distinct  sources  of  agreeableness  : one,  that  of  the  ab^ 


5G 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


stract  beauty  of  its  forms,  whicli,  for  the  present,  we  will 
suppose  to  be  the  same  whether  they  come  from  the  hand  or 
the  machine  ; the  other,  the  sense  of  human  labor  and  care 
spent  upon  it.  How  great  this  latter  influence  we  may  per- 
iia|)s  judge,  by  considering  that  there  is  not  a cluster  of  weeds 
growing  in  any  cranny  of  ruin  which  has  not  a beauty  in  all 
respects  nearly  equal,  and,  in  some,  immeasurably  superior,  to 
that  of  the  most  elaborate  scul2:)ture  of  its  stones  : and  that 
all  our  interest  in  the  carved  work,  our  sense  of  its  richness, 
though  it  is  tenfold  less  rich  than  the  knots  of  grass  beside 
it ; of  its  delicacy,  though  it  is  a thousand  fold  less  delicate  ; 
of  its  admirableness,  though  a millionfold  less  admirable  ; re- 
sults from  our  consciousness  of  its  being  the  work  of  poor, 
clumsy,  toilsome  man.  Its  true  delightfulness  depends  on 
our  discovering  in  it  the  record  of  thoughts,  and  intents,  and 
trials,  and  heart-breakings — -of  recoveries  and  joyfulnesses  of 
success  : all  this  can  be  traced  by  a practised  eye  ; but,  grant- 
ing it  even  obscure,  it  is  presumed  or  understood ; and  in 
that  is  the  worth  of  the  tiling,  just  as  much  as  the  worth  of 
anything  else  we  call  precious.  The  worth  of  a diamond  is 
simply  the  understanding  of  the  time  it  must  take  to  look  for 
it  before  it  can  be  cut.  It  has  an  intrinsic  value  besides, 
wdiich  the  diamond  has  not  (for  a diamond  has  no  more  real 
beauty  than  a piece  of  glass)  ; but  I do  not  speak  of  that  at 
present  ; I place  the  two  on  the  same  ground  ; and  I suppose 
that  hand-wrought  ornament  can  no  more  be  generally  known 
from  machine  work,  than  a diamond  can  be  known  from 
paste  ; nay,  that  the  latter  may  deceive,  for  a moment,  the 
mason’s,  as  the  other  the  jeweller’s  eye  ; and  that  it  can  be 
detected  only  by  the  closest  examination.  Yet  exactly  as  a 
woman  of  feeling  would  not  wear  false  jewels,  so  would  a 
builder  of  honor  disdain  false  ornaments.  The  using  of  them 
is  just  as  downright  and  inexcusable  a lie.  You  use  that 
which  pretends  to  a worth  which  it  has  not ; which  pretends 
to  have  cost,  and  to  be,  what  it  did  not,  and  is  not ; it  is  an 
imposition,  a vulgarity,  an  impertinence,  and  a sin.  Down 
with  it  to  the  ground,  grind  it  to  powder,  leave  its  ragged 
place  upon  the  wall,  rather ; you  have  not  paid  for  it,  you 


THE  LAMP  OP  TRUTH. 


57 


have  no  business  with  it,  you  do  not  want  it.  Nobody  wants 
ornaments  in  this  world,  but  everybody  wants  integrity.  All 
the  fair  devices  that  ever  were  fancied,  are  not  worth  a lie. 
Leave  your  walls  as  bare  as  a planed  board,  or  build  them  o? 
baked  mud  and  chopped  straw,  if  need  be  ; but  do  not 
rough-cast  them  with  falsehood. 

This,  then,  being  our  general  law,  and  I hold  it  for  a more 
imperative  one  than  any  other  I have  asserted  ; and  this  kind 
of  dishonesty  the  meanest,  as  the  least  necessary ; for  orna- 
ment is  an  extravagant  and  inessential  thing  ; and,  therefore, 
if  fallacious,  utterly  base — this,  I say,  being  our  general  law, 
there  are,  nevertheless,  certain  exceptions  respecting  particu- 
lar substances  and  their  uses. 

XX.  Thus  in  the  use  of  brick  ; since  that  is  known  to  be 
originally  moulded,  there  is  no  reason  why  it  should  not  be 
moulded  into  diverse  forms.  It  will  never  be  supposed  to 
have  been  cut,  and  therefore,  will  cause  no  deception  ; it  will 
have  only  the  credit  it  deserves.  In  flat  countries,  far  from 
any  quarry  of  stone,  cast  brick  may  be  legitimately,  and  most 
successfully,  used  in  decoration,  and  that  elaborate,  and  even 
refined.  The  brick  mouldings  of  the  Palazzo  Pepoli  at 
Bologna,  and  those  which  run  round  the  market-place  of  Ver- 
celli,  are  among  the  richest  in  Italy.  So  also,  tile  and  por- 
celain work,  of  which  the  former  is  grotesquely,  but  success- 
fully, employed  in  the  domestic  architecture  of  France,  col- 
ored tiles  being  inserted  in  the  diamond  spaces  between  the 
crossing  timbers  ; and  the  latter  admirably  in  Tuscany,  in 
external  bas-reliefs,  by  the  Robbia  family,  in  which  works, 
while  we  cannot  but  sometimes  regret  the  useless  and  ill-ar- 
ranged colors,  we  would  by  no  means  blame  the  employment 
of  a material  which,  whatever  its  defects,  excels  every  other 
in  permanence,  and,  perhaps,  requires  even  greater  skill  in  its 
management  than  marble.  For  it  is  not  the  material,  but 
the  absence  of  the  human  labor,  which  makes  the  thing 
worthless ; and  a piece  of  terra  cotta,  or  orf  plaster  of  Paris, 
which  has  been  wrought  by  human  hand,  is  worth  all  the 
stone  in  Carrara,  cut  by  machinery.  It  is,  indeed,  possible, 
and  even  usual,  for  men  to  sink  into  machines  themselves,  so 


58 


THE  LAMP  OF  mUTJI. 


iLat  even  liand-work  has  all  the  characters  of  mechanism  ; of 
the  difference  between  living  and  dead  hand-work  I shall 
speak  presently  ; all  that  I ask  at  present  is,  what  it  is  always 
in  our  j)ower  to  secure — the  confession  of  what  we  have  done, 
and  what  we  have  given  ; so  that  when  we  use  stone  at  all, 
since  all  stone  is  naturally  supposed  to  be  carved  by  hand, 
we  must  not  carve  it  by  machinery  ; neither  must  we  use  any 
artificial  stone  cast  into  shape,  nor  any  stucco  ornaments  of 
the  color  of  stone,  or  which  might  in  anywise  be  mistaken  for 
it,  as  the  stucco  mouldings  in  the  cortile  of  the  Palazzo  Vec- 
chio  at  Florence,  which  cast  a shame  and  suspicion  over  every 
X^art  of  the  building.  But  for  ductile  and  fusible  materials, 
as  clay,  iron,  and  bronze,  since  these  will  usually  be  supposed 
to  have  been  cast  or  stamped,  it  is  at  our  pleasure  to  employ 
them  as  we  will ; remembering  that  they  become  precious,  or 
otherwise,  just  in  projDortion  to  the  hand-work  u]3on  them,  or 
to  the  clearness  of  their  reception  of  the  hand-work  of  their 
mould. 

But  I believe  no  cause  to  have  been  more  active  in  the 
degradation  of  our  natural  feeling  for  beauty,  than  the  con- 
stant use  of  cast  iron  ornaments.  The  common  iron  work  of 
the  middle  ages  was  as  simple  as  it  was  effective,  composed  of 
leafage  cut  flat  out  of  sheet  iron,  and  twisted  at  the  work- 
man’s will.  No  ornaments,  on  the  contrary,  are  so  cold, 
clumsy,  and  vulgar,  so  essentially  incapable  of  a fine  line,  or 
shadow,  as  those  of  cast  iron  ; and  while,  on  the  score  of  truth, 
we  can  hardly  allege  anything  against  them,  since  they  are 
always  distinguishable,  at  a glance,  from  wrought  and  ham- 
mered w'ork,  and  stand  only  for  what  they  are,  yet  I feel  very 
strongly  that  there  is  no  hope  of  the  j^rogress  of  the  arts  of 
any  nation  which  indulges  in  these  vulgar  and  cheaj)  substi- 
tutes for  real  decoration.  Their  inefficiency  and  paltriness  I 
shall  endeavor  to  show  more  conclusively  in  another  place, 
enforcing  only,  at  jDresent,  the  general  conclusion  that,  if  even 
honest  or  allowable,  they  are  things  in  which  we  can  never 
take  just  j^ride  or  pleasure,  and  must  never  be  employed  in 
any  jdace  wherein  they  might  either  themselves  obtain  the 
credit  of  being  other  and  better  than  they  are,  or  be  asso- 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTU. 


59 


ciated  with  the  downright  work  to  which  it  would  be  a dis- 
grace to  be  found  in  their  company. 

Such  are,  I believe,  the  three  principal  kinds  of  fallacy  by 
which  architecture  is  liable  to  be  corrupted  ; there  are,  how- 
ever, other  and  more  subtle  forms  of  it,  against  which  it  is  less 
easy  to  guard  by  definite  law,  than  by  the  watchfulness  of  a 
manly  and  unaffected  spirit.  For,  as  it  has  been  above  no- 
ticed, there  are  certain  kinds  of  deception  which  extend  to 
impressions  and  ideas  only  ; of  which  some  are,  indeed,  of  a 
noble  use,  as  that  above  referred  to,  the  arborescent  look  of 
lofty  Gothic  aisles  ; but  of  which  the  most  part  have  so  much 
of  legerdemain  and  trickery  about  them,  that  they  will  lower 
any  style  in  which  they  considerably  prevail ; and  they  are 
likely  to  prevail  wFen  once  they  are  admitted,  being  apt  to 
catch  the  fancy  alike  of  uninventive  architects  and  feelingless 
spectators  ; just  as  mean  and  shallow  minds  are,  in  other 
matters,  delighted  with  the  sense  of  over-reaching,  or  tickled 
with  the  conceit  of  detecting  the  intention  to  over-reach  ; and 
when  subtleties  of  this  kind  are  accompanied  by  the  display 
of  such  dextrous  stone-cutting,  or  architectural  sleight  of 
hand,  as  may  become,  even  by  itself,  a subject  of  admiration, 
it  is  a great  chance  if  the  pursuit  of  them  do  not  gradually 
draw  us  away  from  all  regard  and  care  for  the  nobler  char- 
acter of  the  art,  and  end  in  its  total  paralysis  or  extinction. 
And  against  this  there  is  no  guarding,  but  by  stern  disdain 
of  all  display  of  dexterity  and  ingenious  device,  and  by  put- 
ting the  whole  force  of  our  fancy  into  the  arrangement  of 
masses  and  forms,  caring  no  more  how  these  masses  and 
forms  are  wrought  out,  than  a great  painter  cares  which 
way  his  pencil  strikes.  It  would  be  easy  to  give  many  in- 
stances of  the  danger  of  these  tricks  and  vanities  ; but  I 
shall  confine  myself  to  the  examination  of  one  which  has,  as 
*'1  think,  been  the  cause  of  the  fall  of  Gothic  architecture 
throughout  Europe.  I mean  the  system  of  intersectional 
mouldings,  which,  on  account  of  its  great  importance,  and 
for  the  sake  of  the  general  reader,  I may,  perhaps,  be  par- 
doned for  explaining  elementarily. 

XXI.  I must,  in  the  first  place,  however,  refer  to  Professor 


C50 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


Willis’s  account  of  the  origin  of  tracery,  given  in  the  sixth 
cha2)ter  of  his  Architecture  of  the  Middle  Ages ; since  the 
j)ublication  of  which  I have  been  not  a little  amazed  to  hear 
of  any  attemi:)ts  made  to  resuscitate  the  inexcusably  absurd 
theory  of  its  derivation  from  imitated  vegetable  form — inex- 
cusably, I say,  because  the  smallest  acquaintance  with  early 
Gothic  architecture  would  have  informed  the  supporters  of 
that  theory  of  the  sinqde  fact,  that,  exactly  in  2)ro2:)ortion  to 
the  antiquity  of  the  work,  the  imitation  of  such  organic  forms 
is  less,  and  in  the  earliest  exanqdes  does  not  exist  at  all. 
There  cannot  be  the  shadow  of  a question,  in  the  mind  of  a 
2)erson  familiarised  with  any  single  series  of  consecutive  ex- 
am2)les,  that  tracery  arose  from  the  gradual  enlargement  of 
the  23enetrations  of  the  shield  of  stone  which,  usually  su2> 
ported  by  a central  23illar,  occu2hed  the  head  of  early  windows. 
Professor  Willis,  25erhaps,  confines  his  observations  somewhat 
too  absolutely  to  the  double  sub-arch.  I have  given,  in  Plate 
VII.  fig.  2,  an  interesting  case  of  rude  2^eiietration  of  a high 
and  sim2fiy  trefoiled  shield,  from  the  church  of  the  Eremitani 
at  Padua.  But  the  more  frequent  and  ty2)ical  form  is  that  of 
the  double  sub-arch,  decorated  with  various  23iercings  of  the 
S2)ace  between  it  and  the  su23erior  arch  ; with  a sim2fie  trefoil 
under  a round  arch,  in  the  Abbaye  aux  Homines,  Caen“ 
(Plate  III.  fig.  1) ; with  a very  beautifully  pro23ortioned  qua- 
trefoil,  in  the  triforium  of  Eu,  and  that  of  the  choir  of  Lisieux ; 
with  quatrefoils,  sixfoils,  and  septfoils,  in  the  transept  townrs 
of  Bouen  (Plate  III.  fig.  2) ; with  a trefoil  awkwardly,  and  very 
small  quatrefoil  above,  at  Coutances,  (Plate  III.  fig.  3) ; then, 
Avith  rnultqAlications  of  the  same  figures,  23ointed  or  round,  giv- 
ing very  clumsy  sha2)es  of  the  intermediate  stone  (fig.  4,  from 
one  of  the  nave  cha2)els  of  Eouen,  fig.  5,  from  one  of  the  nave 
cha23els  of  Bayeaux),  and  finally,  by  thinning  out  the  stony 
ribs,  reaching  conditions  like  that  of  the  glorious  typical  form 
of  the  clerestory  of  the  a23se  of  Beauvais  (fig.  6). 

XXn.  Now,  it  will  be  noticed  that,  during  the  wdiole  of 
this  251’ocess,  the  attention  is  ke23t  fixed  on  the  forms  of  the 
2)enetrations,  that  is  to  say,  of  tlie  lights  as  seen  from  the  in- 
terior, not  of  the  intermediate  stone.  All  the  grace  of  the 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


61 


•window  is  in  the  outline  of  its  light ; and  I have  drawn  all 
these  traceries  as  seen  from  within,  in  order  to  show  the  effect 
of  the  light  thus  treated,  at  first  in  far  off  and  separate  stars, 
and  then  gradually  enlarging,  approaching,  until  they  come 
and  stand  over  us,  as  it  were,  filling  the  whole  space  with  their 
effulgence.  And  it  is  in  this  pause  of  the  star,  that  we  have 
the  great,  pure,  and  perfect  form  of  French  Gothic  ; it  was 
at  the  instant  when  the  rudeness  of  the  intermediate  space 
had  been  finally  conquered,  when  the  light  had  expanded  to 
its  fullest,  and  yet  had  not  lost  its  radiant  unity,  principality, 
and  visible  first  causing  of  the  whole,  that  we  have  the  most 
exquisite  feeling  and  most  faultless  judgments  in  the  manage- 
ment alike  of  the  tracery  and  decorations.  I have  given,  in 
Plate  X.,  an  exquisite  example  of  it,  from  a panel  decoration 
of  the  buttresses  of  the  north  door  of  Eouen  ; and  in  order 
that  the  reader  may  understand  what  truly  fine  Gothic  work 
is,  and  how  nobly  it  unites  fantasy  and  law,  as  well  as  for  our 
immediate  purpose,  it  will  be  well  that  he  should  examine  its 
sections  and  mouldings  in  detail  (they  are  described  in  the 
fourth  Chapter,  § xxvii.),  and  that  the  more  carefully,  because 
this  design  belongs  to  a period  in  which  the  most  important 
change  took  place  in  the  spirit  of  Gothic  architecture,  which, 
perhaps,  ever  resulted  from  the  natural  progress  of  any  art. 
That  tracery  marks  a pause  between  the  la^dng  aside  of  one 
great  ruling  principle,  and  the  taking  up  of  another  ; a pause 
as  marked,  as  clear,  as  conspicuous  to  the  distant  view  of 
after  times,  as  to  the  distant  glance  of  the  traveller  is  the 
culminating  ridge  of  the  mountain  chain  over  which  he  has 
passed.  It  was  the  great  watershed  of  Gothic  art.  Before  it, 
all  had  been  ascent ; after  it,  all  was  decline  ; both,  indeed, 
by  winding  paths  and  varied  slopes ; both  interrupted,  like 
the  gradual  rise  and  fall  of  the  passes  of  the  Alps,  by  great 
mountain  outliers,  isolated  or  branching  from  the  central 
chain,  and  by  retrograde  or  parallel  directions  of  the  valleys 
of  access.  But  the  track  of  the  human  mind  is  traceable  up 
to  that  glorious  ridge,  in  a continuous  line,  and  thence  down- 
wards. Like  a silver  zone — 


02 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


“Flung  about  carelessly,  it  shines  afar, 

Catching  the  eye  in  many  a broken  link, 

In  many  a turn  and  traverse,  as  it  glides. 

And  oft  above,  and  oft  below,  appears — 

* * * * to  him  wlio  journeys  up 

As  tliougli  it  were  another.” 

And  at  that  point,  and  that  instant,  reaching  the  place  that 
was  nearest  heaven,  the  builders  looked  back,  for  the  last 
time,  to  the  way  by  which  they  had  come,  and  the  scenes 
through  which  their  early  course  had  passed.  They  turned 
away  from  them  and  their  morning  light,  and  descended  to- 
wards a new  horizon,  for  a time  in  the  warmth  of  western  sun, 
but  plunging  with  every  forward  step  into  more  cold  and 
melancholy  shade. 

XXin.  The  change  of  which  I speak,  is  inexpressible  in 
few  words,  but  one  more  important,  more  radically  influential, 
could  not  be.  It  was  the  substitution  of  the  line  for  the  mass, 
as  the  element  of  decoration. 

We  have  seen  the  mode  in  which  the  openings  or  penetra- 
tion of  the  window  expanded,  until  what  were,  at  first,  awk- 
ward forms  of  intermediate  stone,  became  delicate  lines  of 
tracery  : and  I have  been  careful  in  pointing  out  the  peculiar 
attention  bestowed  on  the  proportion  and  decoration  of  the 
mouldings  of  the  window  at  Eouen,  in  Plate  X.,  as  compared 
with  earlier  mouldings,  because  that  beauty  and  care  are  sin- 
gularly significant.  They  mark  that  the  traceries  had  caught 
the  eye  of  the  architect.  Up  to  that  time,  up  to  the  very  last 
instant  in  which  the  reduction  and  thinning  of  the  intervening 
stone  was  consummated,  his  eye  had  been  on  the  openings  only, 
on  the  stars  of  light.  He  did  not  care  about  the  stone,  a rude 
Border  of  moulding  was  all  he  needed,  it  was  the  penetrating 
shape  which  he  was  watching.  But  when  that  shap)e  had  re- 
ceived its  last  possible  expansion,  and  when  the  stone-work 
became  an  arrangement  of  graceful  and  j^arallel  lines,  that 
arrangement,  like  some  form  in  a picture,  unseen  and  acciden- 
tally developed,  struck  suddenly,  inevitably,  on  the  sight.  It 
had  literally  not  been  seen  before.  It  flashed  out  in  an  in- 
stant as  an  independent  form.  It  became  a feature  of  the 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH 


03 


work.  The  architect  took  it  under  his  care,  thought  over  it, 
and  distributed  its  members  as  we  see. 

Now,  the  great  i)ause  was  at  the  moment  when  the  space 
and  the  dividing  stone-work  were  both  equally  considered. 
It  did  not  last  fifty  years.  The  forms  of  the  tracery  were 
seized  with  a childish  delight  in  the  novel  source  of  beauty  ; 
and  the  intervening  space  was  cast  aside,  as  an  element  of 
decoration,  for  ever.  I have  confined  myself,  in  following  this 
change,  to  the  window,  as  the  feature  in  which  it  is  clearest. 
But  the  transition  is  the  same  in  every  member  of  architect- 
ure ; and  its  importance  can  hardly  be  understood,  unless  we 
take  the  pains  to  trace  it  in  the  universality,  of  which  illustra- 
tions, irrelevant  to  our  present  purpose,  will  be  found  in  the 
third  Chapter.  I pursue  here  the  question  of  truth,  relating 
to  the  treatment  of  the  mouldings. 

XXrV.  The  reader  will  observe  that,  up  to  the  last  expan- 
sion of  the  penetrations,  the  stone- work  was  necessarily  consid- 
ered, as  it  actually  is,  stiff,  and  unyielding.  It  was  so,  also, 
during  the  pause  of  which  I have  spoken,  when  the  forms  of 
the  tracery  were  still  severe  and  pure ; delicate  indeed,  but 
perfectly  firm. 

At  the  close  of  the  period  of  pause,  the  first  sign  of  serious 
change  was  like  a low  breeze,  passing  through  the  emaciated 
tracery,  and  making  it  tremble.  It  began  to  undulate  like  the 
threads  of  a cobweb  lifted  by  the  wind.  It  lost  its  essence  as 
a structure  of  stone.  Reduced  to  the  slenderness  of  threads, 
it  began  to  be  considered  as  possessing  also  their  flexibihty. 
The  architect  was  pleased  with  this  his  new  fancy,  and  set  him- 
self to  carry  it  out ; and  in  a little  time,  the  bars  of  tracery 
were  caused  to  appear  to  the  eye  as  if  they  had  been  woven 
together  like  a net.  This  was  a change  which  sacrificed  a 
great  principle  of  truth ; it  sacrificed  the  expression  of  the 
qualities  of  the  material ; and,  however  delightful  its  results 
in  their  first  developments,  it  was  ultimately  ruinous. 

For,  observe  the  difference  between  the  supposition  of  duc- 
tility, and  that  of  elastic  structure  noticed  above  in  the  resem- 
blance to  tree  form.  That  resemblance  was  not  sought,  but 
necessary  ; it  resulted  from  the  natural  conditions  of  strength 


G4 


THE  LAMP  OF  TliUTIl 


in  the  pier  or  trunk,  and  slenderness  in  the  ribs  or  branches, 
wliilc  many  of  the  other  suggested  conditions  of  resemblance 
were  perfectly  true.  A tree  branch,  though  in  a certain  sense 
flexible,  is  not  ductile  ; it  is  as  firm  in  its  own  form  as  the  rib 
of  stone  ; both  of  them  will  yield  up  to  certain  limits,  both  of 
them  breaking  when  those  limits  are  exceeded  ; while  the  tree 
trunk  will  bend  no  more  than  the  stone  pillar.  But  when  the 
tracery  is  assumed  to  be  as  yielding  as  a silken  cord ; when 
the  whole  fragility,  elasticity,  and  weight  of  the  material  are 
to  the  eye,  if  not  in  terms,  denied  ; when  all  the  art  of  the 
architect  is  applied  to  disj)rove  the  first  conditions  of  his  work- 
ing, and  the  first  attributes  of  his  materials  ; this  is  a deliber- 
ate treacheiy,  only  redeemed  from  the  charge  of  direct  false- 
hood by  the  visibility  of  the  stone  surface,  and  degrading  all 
the  traceries  it  affects  exactly  in  the  degree  of  its  presence. 

XXV.  But  the  declining  and  morbid  taste  of  the  later  ar- 
chitects, was  not  satisfied  with  thus  much  deception.  They 
were  delighted  with  the  subtle  charm  they  had  created,  and 
thought  only  of  increasing  its  power.  The  next  step  Avas  to 
consider  and  represent  the  tracery,  as  not  only  ductile,  but 
penetrable  ; and  when  two  mouldings  met  each  other,  to 
manage  their  intersection,  so  that  one  should  appear  to  pass 
through  the  other,  retaining  its  independence  ; or  when  two 
ran  parallel  to  each  other,  to  represent  the  one  as  partly  con- 
tained within  the  other,  and  partly  apparent  above  it.  This 
form  of  falsity  was  that  which  crushed  the  art.  The  flexible 
traceries  were  often  beautiful,  though  they  Avere  ignoble  ; but 
the  penetrated  traceries,  rendered,  as  they  finally  were,  merely 
the  means  of  exhibiting  the  dexterity  of  the  stone-cutter,  an- 
nihilated both  the  beauty  and  dignity  of  the  Gothic  types. 
A system  so  momentous  in  its  consequences  deserves  some 
detailed  examination. 

XXVI.  In  the  drawing  of  the  shafts  of  the  door  at  Lisieux, 
under  the  sj)andril,  in  Plate  VII.,  the  reader  Avill  see  the  mode 
of  managing  the  intersection  of  similar  mouldings,  Avhich  Avas 
universal  in  the  great  periods.  They  melted  into  each  other, 
and  became  one  at  the  point  of  crossing,  or  of  contact ; and 
even  the  suggestion  of  so  sharp  intersection  as  this  of  Lisieux 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 


65 


is  usually  avoided  (this  design  being,  of  course,  only  a pointed 
form  of  the  earlier  Norman  arcade,  in  which  the  arches  are 
interlaced,  and  lie  each  over  the  preceding,  and  under  the  fol- 
lowing, one,  as  in  Anselm’s  tower  at  Canterbury),  since,  in  the 
plurality  of  designs,  when  mouldings  meet  each  other,  they 
coincide  through  some  considerable  portion  of  their  curves, 
meeting  by  contact,  rather  than  by  intersection ; and  at  the 
point  of  coincidence  the  section  of  each  separate  moulding 
becomes  common  to  the  two  thus  melted  into  each  other. 
Thus,  in  the  junction  of  the  circles  of  the  window  of  the  Pa- 
lazzo Foscari,  Plate  VIII.,  given  accurately  in  fig.  8,  Plate  IV., 
the  section  across  the  line  s,  is  exactly  the  same  as  that  across 
any  break  of  the  separated  moulding  above,  as  «.  It  some- 
times, however,  happens,  that  two  different  mouldings  meet 
each  other.  This  was  seldom  permitted  in  the  great  periods, 
and,  when  it  took  place,  was  most  awkwardly  managed.  Fig. 
1,  Plate  IV.  gives  the  junction  of  the  mouldings  of  the  gable 
and  vertical,  in  the  window  of  the  spire  of  Salisbury.  That 
of  the  gable  is  composed  of  a single,  and  that  of  the  vertical 
of  a double  cavetto,  decorated  with  ball-flowers  ; and  the 
larger  single  moulding  swallows  up  one  of  the  double  ones, 
and  pushes  forward  among  the  smaller  balls  with  the  most 
blundering  and  clumsy  simplicity.  In  comparing  the  sections 
it  is  to  be  observed  that,  in  the  upper  one,  the  line  a b repre- 
sents an  actual  vertical  in  the  plane  of  the  window  ; while,  in 
the  lower  one,  the  line  e d represents  the  horizontal,  in  the 
plane  of  the  window,  indicated  by  the  perspective  line  d e. 

XXVII.  The  very  awkwardness  with  which  such  occur- 
rences of  difficulty  are  met  by  the  earlier  builder,  marks  his 
dislike  of  the  system,  and  unwillingness  to  attract  the  eye  to 
such  arrangements.  There  is  another  very  clumsy  one,  in  the 
junction  of  the  upper  and  sub-arches  of  the  triforium  of 
Salisbury  ; but  it  is  kept  in  the  shade,  and  all  the  prominent 
junctions  are  of  mouldings  like  each  other,  and  managed  with 
perfect  simplicity.  But  so  soon  as  the  attention  of  the  builders 
became,  as  we  have  just  seen,  fixed  upon  the  lines  of  mouldings 
instead  of  the  enclosed  spaces,  those  lines  began  to  preserve  an 
independent  existence  wherever  they  met ; and  different  mould- 
5 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTU. 


C6 

iiigs  were  studiously  associated,  in  order  to  obtain  variety  of 
intersectional  line.  We  must,  however,  do  the  late  builders 
the  justice  to  note  that,  in  one  case,  the  habit  grew  out  of  a 
feeling  of  proj^ortion,  more  refined  than  that  of  earlier  work- 
men. It  shows  itself  first  in  the  bases  of  divided  pillars,  or 
arch  mouldings,  whose  smaller  shafts  had  originally  bases 
formed  by  the  continued  base  of  the  central,  or  other  larger, 
columns  with  which  they  were  grouped ; but  it  being  felt,  when 
the  eye  of  the  architect  became  fastidious,  that  the  dimension 
of  moulding  which  was  right  for  the  base  of  a large  shaft,  was 
wrong  for  that  of  a small  one,  each  shaft  had  an  index^endent 
base  ; at  first,  those  of  the  smaller  died  sim^fiy  down  on  that 
of  the  larger ; but  when  the  vertical  sections  of  both  became 
comjilicated,  the  bases  of  the  smaller  shafts  were  considered  to 
exist  within  those  of  the  larger,  and  the  places  of  their  emer- 
gence, on  this  supposition,  were  calculated  wdth  the  utmost 
nicety,  and  cut  with  singular  j)recision  ; so  that  an  elaborate 
late  base  of  a divided  column,  as,  for  instance,  of  those  in  the 
nave  of  Abbeville,  looks  exactly  as  if  its  smaller  shafts  had  all 
been  finished  to  the  ground  first,  each  with  its  complete  and 
intricate  base,  and  then  the  com^^rehending  base  of  the  central 
pier  had  been  moulded  over  them  in  clay,  leaving  their  point's 
and  angles  sticking  out  here  and  there,  like  the  edges  of  sharj) 
ciystals  out  of  a nodule  of  earth.  The  exhibition  of  technical 
dexterity  in  work  of  this  kind  is  often  marvellous,  the  strangest 
XDOssible  shapes  of  sections  being  calculated  to  a hair’s-breadth, 
and  the  occurrence  of  the  under  and  emergent  forms  being 
rendered,  even  in  places  where  they  are  so  slight  that  they  can 
hardly  be  detected  but  by  the  touch.  It  is  impossible  to  ren- 
der a very  elaborate  example  of  this  kind  intelligible,  wfithout 
some  fifty  measured  sections ; but  fig.  6,  Plate  IV.  is  a very  in- 
teresting and  simple  one,  from  the  west  gate  of  Kouen.  It  is 
part  of  the  base  of  one  of  the  narrow  j^iers  between  its  princi- 
X^al  niches.  The  square  column  Ic,  having  a base  with  the  pro- 
file p r,  is  siq^i^osed  to  contain  within  itself  another  similar 
one,  set  diagonally,  and  lifted  so  far  above  the  inclosing  one, 
as  that  the  recessed  part  of  its  jDrofile  p r shall  fall  behind  the 
X^rojecting  x^art  of  the  outer  one.  The  angle  of  its  ux^per  por* 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH 


67 


tion  exactly  meets  the  plane  of  the  side  of  the  upper  inclosing 
shaft  4,  and  would,  therefore,  not  he  seen,  unless  two  vertical 
cuts  were  made  to  exhibit  it,  which  form  two  dark  lines  the 
whole  way  up  the  shaft.  Two  small  pilasters  are  run,  like 
fastening  stitches,  through  the  junction  on  the  front  of  the 
shafts.  The  sections  Tc  n taken  respectively  at  the  levels  k,  n, 
will  explain  the  hypothetical  construction  of  the  whole.  Fig. 
7 is  a base,  or  joint  rather  (for  passages  of  this  form  occur 
again  and  again,  on  the  shafts  of  flamboyant  work),  of  one  of 
the  smallest  piers  of  the  pedestals  which  support  the  lost  stat- 
ues of  the  porch  ; its  section  below  would  be  the  same  as 
and  its  construction,  after  what  has  been  said  of  the  other 
base,  will  be  at  once  perceived. 

XXVIII.  There  was,  however,  in  this  kind  of  involution, 
much  to  be  admired  as  well  as  reprehended,  the  proportions 
of  quantities  were  always  as  beautiful  as  they  w^ere  intricate  ; 
and,  though  the  lines  of  intersection  were  harsh,  they  were 
exquisitely  opposed  to  the  flower-work  of  the  interposing 
mouldings.  But  the  fancy  did  not  stop  here  ; it  rose  from 
the  bases  into  the  arches  ; and  there,  not  finding  room  enough 
for  its  exhibition,  it  withdrew  the  capitals  from  the  heads 
even  of  cylindrical  shafts,  (we  cannot  but  admire,  while  we 
regret,  the  boldness  of  the  men  who  could  defy  the  authority 
and  custom  of  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  for  a space  of  some 
three  thousand  years,)  in  order  that  the  arch  mouldings  might 
appear  to  emerge  from  the  pillar,  as  at  its  base  they  had  been 
lost  in  it,  and  not  to  terminate  on  the  abacus  of  the  capital ; 
then  they  ran  the  mouldings  across  and  through  each  other, 
at  the  point  of  the  arch  ; and  finally,  not  finding  their  natural 
directions  enough  to  furnish  as  many  occasions  of  intersection 
as  they  wished,  bent  them  hither  and  thither,  and  cut  off  their 
ends  short,  when  they  had  passed  the  point  of  intersection. 
Fig.  2,  Plate  IV.  is  part  of  a flying  buttress  from  the  apse  of 
St.  Gervais  at  Falaise,  in  which  the  moulding  whose  section 
is  rudely  given  above  at  /,  (taken  vertically  through  the  point 
f,)  is  carried  thrice  through  itself,  in  the  cross-bar  and  two 
arches  ; and  the  flat  fillet  is  cut  off  sharp  at  the  end  of  the 
cross-bar,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  the  truncation  Fig.  3 is 


G8 


THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH 


half  of  the  head  of  a door  in  the  Stadthaus  of  Sursee,  in  which 
the  shaded  part  of  the  section  of  the  joint  g g,  is  that  of  the 
arch-moulding,  which  is  three  times  reduplicated,  and  six 
times  intersected  by  itself,  the  ends  being  cut  off  when  the;y 
become  unmanageable.  This  style  is,  indeed,  earlier  exag* 
gerated  in  Switzerland  and  Germany,  owing  to  the  imitation 
in  stone  of  the  dovetailing  of  wood,  particularly  of  the  inter- 
secting of  beams  at  the  angles  of  chalets  ; but  it  only  furnishes 
the  more  plain  instance  of  the  danger  of  the  fallacious  system 
which,  from  the  beginning,  repressed  the  German,  and,  in 
the  end,  ruined  the  French  Gothic.  It  would  be  too  painful 
a task  to  follow  further  the  caricatures  of  form,  and  eccen- 
tricities of  treatment,  which  grow  out  of  this  singular  abuse 
— the  flattened  arch,  the  shrunken  pillar,  the  lifeless  orna- 
ment, the  liny  moulding,  the  distorted  and  extravagant  folia- 
tion, until  the  time  came  when,  over  these  wrecks  and  rem- 
nants, deprived  of  all  unity  and  principle,  rose  the  foul  torrent 
of  the  renaissance,  and  swept  them  all  away.  So  fell  the  great 
dynasty  of  mediseval  architecture.  It  -was  because  it  had  lost 
its  own  strength,  and  disobeyed  its  own  laws — because  its  order, 
and  consistency,  and  organization,  had  been  broken  through 
— that  it  could  oppose  no  resistance  to  the  rush  of  overwhelm- 
ing innovation.  And  this,  observe,  all  because  it  had  sacri- 
flced  a single  truth.  From  that  one  surrender  of  its  integrity, 
from  that  one  endeavor  to  assume  the  semblance  of  what  it 
was  not,  arose  the  multitudinous  forms  of  disease  and  decrep- 
itude, which  rotted  away  the  pillars  of  its  supremacy.  It  was 
not  because  its  time  was  come  ; it  was  not  because  it  was 
scorned  by  the  classical  Romanist,  or  dreaded  by  the  faithful 
Protestant.  That  scorn  and  that  fear  it  might  have  survived, 
and  lived  ; it  would  have  stood  forth  in  stern  comparison  with 
the  enervated  sensuality  of  the  renaissance  ; it  would  have 
risen  in  renewed  and  purified  honor,  and  with  a new  soul, 
from  the  ashes  into  which  it  sank,  giving  up  its  glory,  as  it 
had  received  it,  for  the  honor  of  God — but  its  own  truth  was 
gone,  and  it  sank  forever.  There  was  no  wisdom  nor  strength 
left  in  it,  to  raise  it  from  the  dust ; and  the  error  of  zeal,  and 
the  softness  of  luxury  smote  it  down  and  dissolved  it  away 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


60 


It  is  good  for  us  to  remember  this,  as  we  tread  upon  the 
bare  ground  of  its  foundations,  and  stumble  over  its  scattered 
stones.  Those  rent  skeletons  of  pierced  wall,  through  which 
our  sea-winds  moan  and  murmur,  strewing  them  joint  by 
joint,  and  bone  by  bone,  along  the  bleak  promontories  on 
which  the  Pharos  lights  came  once  from  houses  of  praj^er — 
those  grey  arches  and  quiet  isles  under  which  the  sheep  of 
our  valleys  feed  and  rest  on  the  turf  that  has  buried  their, 
altars — those  shapeless  heaps,  that  are  not  of  the  Earth,  which 
lift  our  fields  into  strange  and  sudden  banks  of  flowers,  and 
stay  our  mountain  streams  with  stones  that  are  not  their  own, 
have  other  thoughts  to  ask  from  us  than  those  of  mourning 
for  the  rage  that  despoiled,  or  the  fear  that  forsook  them.  It 
was  not  the  robber,  not  the  fanatic,  not  the  blasphemer,  who 
sealed  the  destruction  that  they  had  wrought  ; the  war,  the 
wrath,  the  terror,  might  have  worked  their  worst,  and  the 
strong  walls  would  have  risen,  and  the  slight  pillars  would 
have  started  again,  from  under  the  hand  of  the  destroyer. 
But  they  could  not  rise  out  of  the  ruins  of  their  own  violated 
truth. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

THE  LAMP  OF  POWEE. 

I.  In  recalling  the  impressions  we  have  received  from  the 
works  of  man,  after  a lapse  of  time  long  enough  to  involve  in 
obscurity  all  but  the  most  vivid,  it  often  happens  that  we  find 
a strange  pre-eminence  and  durability  in  many  upon  whose 
strength  we  had  little  calculated,  and  that  points  of  character 
which  had  escaped  the  detection  of  the  judgment,  become  de- 
veloped under  the  waste  of  memory  ; as  veins  of  harder  rock, 
whose  places  could  not  at  first  have  been  discovered  by  the 
eye,  are  left  salient  under  the  action  of  frosts  and  streams. 
The  traveller  who  desires  to  correct  the  errors  of  his  judg- 
ment, necessitated  by  inequalities  of  temper,  infelicities  of 
circumstance,  and  accidents  of  association,  has  no  other  re- 
source than  to  wait  for  the  calm  verdict  of  interposing  years  ; 
and  to  watch  for  the  new  arrangements  of  eminence  and  shape 


70 


THE  LAMP  OF  -PO  WER. 


in  tlio  images  wliicli  remain  latest  in  his  memory ; as  in  the 
ebbing  of  a mountain  lake,  he  would  watch  the  varying  out- 
lines of  its  successive  shore,  and  trace,  in  the  form  of  its  de- 
parting waters,  the  true  direction  of  the  forces  which  had 
cleft,  or  the  cuiTents  which  had  excavated,  the  deepest  re- 
(tosses  of  its  primal  bed. 

In  thus  reverting  to  the  memories  of  those  works  of  archi- 
tecture by  which  we  have  been  most  pleasurably  impressed,  it 
will  generally  happen  that  they  fall  into  two  broad  classes  : 
the  one  characterized  by  an  exceeding  preciousness  and  deli- 
cacy, to  which  we  recur  with  a sense  of  affectionate  admira- 
tion ; and  the  other  by  a severe,  and,  in  many  cases,  myste- 
rious, majesty,  which  we  remember  with  an  undiminished 
awe,  like  that  felt  at  the  presence  and  operation  of  some  great 
Spiritual  Power.  From  about  these  two  groups,  more  or  less 
harmonised  by  intermediate  examples,  but  always  distinc- 
tively marked  by  features  of  beauty  or  of  power,  there  wiU  be 
swept  away,  in  multitudes,  the  memories  of  buildings,  per- 
haps, in  their  first  address  to  our  minds,  of  no  inferior  pre- 
tension, but  owing  their  impressiveness  to  characters  of  less 
enduring  nobility — to  value  of  material,  accumulation  of  or- 
nament, or  ingenuity  of  mechanical  construction.  Especial 
interest  may,  indeed,  have  been  awakened  by  such  circum- 
stances, and  the  memory  may  have  been,  consequently,  ren- 
dered tenacious  of  particular  parts  or  effects  of  the  structure ; 
but  it  will  recall  even  these  only  by  an  active  effort,  and  then 
without  emotion  ; while  in  passive  moments,  and  with  thrill- 
ing influence,  the  image  of  purer  beauty,  and  of  more  spirit- 
ual power,  will  return  in  a fair  and  solemn  company ; and 
while  the  pride  of  many  a stately  palace,  and  the  wealtli  of 
many  a jewelled  shrine,  perish  from  our  thoughts  in  a dust  of 
gold,  there  will  rise,  through  their  dimness,  the  white  image 
of  some  secluded  marble  chapel,  by  river  or  forest  side,  with 
the  fretted  flower-work  shrinking  under  its  arches,  as  if  under 
vaults  of  late-fallen  snow  ; or  the  vast  weariness  of  some  shad- 
owy wall  whose  separate  stones  are  like  mountain  foundations, 

; and  yet  numberless. 

II.  Now,  the  difference  between  these  two  orders  of  build* 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


71 


ing  is  not  merely  that  which  there  is  in  nature  between  things 
beautiful  and  sublime.  It  is,  also,  the  difference  between 
what  is  derivative  and  original  in  man’s  work  ; for  whatever 
is  in  architecture  fair  or  beautiful,  is  imitated  from  natural 
forms;  and  what  is  not  so  derived,  but* depends  for  its  dig- 
nity upon  arrangement  and  government  received  from  human 
mind,  becomes  the  expression  of  the  power  of  that  mind,  and 
receives  a sublimity  high  in  proportion  to  the  j)ower  ex- 
pressed. All  building,  therefore,  shows  man  either  as  gather- 
ing or  governing : and  the  secrets  of  his  success  are  his 
knowing  what  to  gather,  and  how  to  rule.  These  are  the  two 
great  intellectual  Lamps  of  Architecture ; the  one  consisting 
in  a just  and  humble  veneration  for  the  works  of  God  upon 
the  earth,  and  the  other  in  an  understanding  of  the  dominion 
over  those  works  which  has  been  vested  in  man. 

m.  Besides  this  expression  of  living  authority  and  power, 
there  is,  however,  a sympathy  in  the  forms  of  noble  building, 
with  what  is  most  sublime  in  natural  things ; and  it  is  the 
governing  Power  directed  by  this  sympathy,  whose  operation 
I shall  at  present  endeavor  to  trace,  abandoning  all  inquiry 
into  the  more  abstract  fields  of  invention  : for  this  latter 
faculty,  and  the  questions  of  proportion  and  arrangement 
connected  with  its  discussion,  can  only  be  rightly  examined 
in  a general  view  of  all  arts ; but  its  sympathy,  in  architecture, 
with  the  vast  controlling  powers  of  Nature  herself,  is  special, 
and  may  shortly  be  considered  ; and  that  with  the  more  ad- 
vantage, that  it  has,  of  late,  been  little  felt  or  regarded  by 
architects.  I have  seen,  in  recent  efforts,  much  contest  between 
two  schools,  one  affecting  originality,  and  the  other  legality — 
many  attempts  at  beauty  of  design — many  ingenious  adapta- 
tions of  construction  ; but  I have  never  seen  any  aim  at  the 
expression  of  abstract  power  ; never  any  appearance  of  a con- 
sciousness that,  in  this  primal  art  of  man,  there  is  room  for 
the  marking  of  his  relations  with  the  mightiest,  as  well  as  the 
fairest,  works  of  God ; and  that  those  works  themselves  have 
been  permitted,  by  their  Master  and  his,  to  receive  an  added 
glory  from  their  association  with  earnest  efforts  of  human 
thought.  In  the  edifices  of  Man  there  should  be  found  rever- 


72 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


cnt  worship  and  following,  not  only  of  the  spirit  which  rounds 
the  pillars  of  the  forest,  and  arches  the  vault  of  the  avenue — ■ 
which  gives  veining  to  the  leaf,  and  polish  to  the  shell,  and 
grace  to  every  pulse  that  agitates  animal  organization, — but 
of  that  also  which  reproves  the  pillars  of  the  earth,  and  builds 
uj)  her  barren  jorecipices  into  the  coldness  of  the  clouds,  and 
lifts  her  shadowy  cones  of  mountain  jourple  into  the  pale  arch 
of  the  sky  ; for  these,  and  other  glories  more  than  these,  re- 
fuse not  to  connect  themselves,  in  his  thoughts,  with  the  work 
of  his  own  hand  ; the  grey  cliff  loses  not  its  nobleness  when  it 
reminds  us  of  some  Cyclopean  waste  of  mural  stone  ; the  pin- 
nacles of  the  rocky  promontory  arrange  themselves,  unde- 
graded, into  fantastic  semblances  of  fortress  towers  ; and  even 
the  awful  cone  of  the  far-off  mountain  has  a melancholy  mixed 
with  that  of  its  own  solitude,  which  is  cast  from  the  images  of 
nameless  tumuli  on  white  sea-shores,  and  of  the  heaps  of  reedy 
clay,  into  which  chambered  cities  melt  in  their  mortality. 

IV.  Let  us,  then,  see  what  is  this  power  and  majesty,  which 
Nature  herself  does  not  disdain  to  accej^t  from  the  works  of 
man  ; and  what  that  sublimity  in  the  masses  built  uj)  by  his 
coralline-like  energy,  wdiich  is  honorable,  even  when  trans- 
ferred by  association  to  the  dateless  hills,  which  it  needed 
earthquakes  to  lift,  and  deluges  to  mould. 

And,  first  of  mere  size  : It  might  not  be  thought  possible 
to  emulate  the  sublimity  of  natural  objects  in  this  resi:)ect ; nor 
would  it  be,  if  the  architect  contended  with  them  in  pitched 
battle.  It  would  not  be  well  to  build  pyramids  in  the  valley 
of  Chamonni  ; and  St.  Peter’s,  among  its  many  other  errors, 
counts  for  not  the  least  injurious  its  position  on  the  slope  of 
an  inconsiderable  hill.  But  imagine  it  placed  on  the  plain  of 
Marengo,  or,  like  the  Superga  of  Turin,  or  like  La  Salute  at 
Venice  ! The  fact  is,  that  the  apprehension  of  the  size  of  na- 
tural objects,  as  w^ell  as  of  architecture,  dej^ends  more  on  for- 
tunate excitement  of  the  imagination  than  on  measurements 
by  the  eye  ; and  the  architect  has  a peculiar  advantage  in  being 
able  to  press  close  upon  the  sight,  such  magnitude  as  he  can 
command.  There  are  few  rocks,  even  among  the  Alps,  that 
have  a clear  vertical  fall  as  high  as  the  choir  of  Beauvais  ; and 


TUE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


73 


if  we  secure  a good  precipice  of  wall,  or  a sheer  and  unbroken 
flank  of  tower,  and  place  them  where  there  are  no  enormous 
natural  features  to  oppose  them,  we  shall  feel  in  them  no  want 
of  sublimity  of  size.  And  it  may  be  matter  of  encouragement 
in  this  respect,  though  one  also  of  regret,  to  observe  how  much 
oftener  man  destroys  natural  sublimity,  than  nature  crushes 
human  power.  It  does  not  need  much  to  humiliate  a moun- 
tain. A hut  will  sometimes  do  it ; I never  look  up  to  the  Col 
de  Balme  from  Chamouni,  without  a violent  feeling  of  provo- 
cation against  its  hospitable  little  cabin,  whose  bright  white 
walls  form  a visibly  four-square  spot  on  the  green  ridge,  and 
entirely  destroy  all  idea  of  its  elevation.  A single  villa  wiU 
often  mar  a whole  landscape,  and  dethrone  a dynasty  of  hills, 
and  the  Acropolis  of  Athens,  Parthenon  and  all,  has,  I believe, 
been  dwarfed  into  a model  by  the  palace  lately  built  beneath 
it.  The  fact  is,  that  hills  are  not  so  high  as  we  fancy  them, 
and,  when  to  the  actual  impression  of  no  mean  comparative 
size,  is  added  the  sense  of  the  toil  of  manly  hand  and  thought, 
a sublimity  is  reached,  which  nothing  but  gross  error  in  ar- 
rangement of  its  parts  can  destroy.  — 

V.  While,  therefore,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  mere  size 
will  ennoble  a mean  design,  yet  every  increase  of  magnitude 
will  bestow  upon  it  a certain  degree  of  nobleness  : so  that  it 
is  well  to  determine  at  first,  'whether  the  building  is  to  be 
markedly  beautiful  or  markedly  sublime  ; and  if  the  latter, 
not  to  be  withheld  by  respect  to  smaller  parts  from  reaching 
largeness  of  scale  ; provided  only,  that  it  be  evidently  in  the 
architect’s  j)o>ver  to  reach  at  least  that  degree  of  magnitude 
which  is  the  lowest  at  which  sublimity  begins,  rudely  definable 
os  that  which  will  make  a living  figure  look  less  than  life  be- 
side it.  It  is  the  misfortune  of  most  of  our  modern  buildings 
that  we  would  fain  have  an  universal  excellence  in  them  ; and 
so  part  of  the  funds  must  go  in  painting,  part  in  gilding,  part 
in  fitting  up,  part  in  painted  windows,  part  in  small  steeples, 
part  in  ornaments  here  and  there  ; and  neither  the  windows, 
nor  the  steeple,  nor  the  ornaments,  are  worth  their  materials. 
For.^here  is  a crust  about  the  impressible  part  of  men’s  minds, 
which  must  be  pierced  through  before  they  can  be  touched 


74 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER 


I to  the  quick  ; and  though  we  may  prick  at  it  and  scratch  it 
I in  a thousand  separate  2)lacos,  we  might  as  well  have  let  it 
alone  if  we  do  not  come  through  somewhere  with  a deep 
thrust : and  if  we  can  give  such  a thrust  anywhere,  there  is . 
no  need  of  another  ; it  need  not  be  even  so  “ wide  as  a church 
door,”  so  that  it  be  enough.  And  mere  weight  will  do  this ; 
it  is  a clumsy  way  of  doing  it,  but  an  effectual  one,  too  ; and 
the  apathy  which  cannot  be  pierced  through  by  a small  steeple, 
nor  shone  through  by  a small  window,  can  be  broken  through 
in  a moment  by  the  mere  weight  of  a great  wall.  Let,  there- 
fore, the  architect  who  has  not  large  resources,  choose  his 
point  of  attack  first,  and,  if  he  choose  size,  let  him  abandon 
decoration  ; for,  unless  they  are  concentrated,  and  numerous 
enough  to  make  their  concentration  conspicuous,  all  his  orna- 
ments together  would  not  be  worth  one  huge  stone.  And  the 
choice  must  be  a decided  one,  without  compromise.  It  must 
be  no  question  whether  his  capitals  would  not  look  better  with 
a little  carving — let  him  leave  them  huge  as  blocks  ; or  whether 
his  arches  should  not  have  richer  architraves — let  him  throw 
them  a foot  higher,  if  he  can  ; a yard  more  across  the  nave 
will  be  worth  more  to  him  than  a tesselated  pavement ; and 
another  fathom  of  outer  wall,  than  an  army  of  pinnacles.  The 
limitation  of  size  must  be  only  in  the  uses  of  the  building,  or 
in  the  ground  at  his  disposal. 

VI.  That  limitation,  however,  being  by  such  circumstances 
determined,  by  what  means,  it  is  to  be  next  asked,  may  the 
actual  magnitude  be  best  displayed  ; since  it  is  seldom,  per- 
haps never,  that  a building  of  any  j)retension  to  size  looks  so 
large  as  it  is.  The  appearance  of  a figure  in  any  distant,  more 
especially  in  any  upper,  parts  of  it  will  almost  always  prove 
that  we  have  under-estimated  the  magnitude  of  those  parts. 

It  has  often  been  observed  that  a building,  in  order  to  show 
ite  magnitude,  must  be  seen  all  at  once.  It  would,  perhaps, 
be  better  to  say,  must  be  bounded  as  much  as  possible  by 
continuous  lines,  and  that  its  extreme  points  should  be  seen 
all  at  once  ; or  we  may  state,  in  simpler  terms  still,  that  it 
must  have  one  visible  bounding  line  from  top  to  bottom,  and 
from  end  to  end.  This  bounding  line  from  top  to  bottom  may 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


75 

eitlier  be  inclined  inwards,  and  the  mass,  therefore,  pyrami-’ 
^cal ; or  vertical,  and  the  mass  form  one  grand  cliff ; or  in- 
clined outwards,  as  in  the  advancing  fronts  of  old  houses,  andy 
in  a sort,  in  the  Greek  temple,  and  in  all  buildings  with  heavy 
cornices  or  heads.  Now,  in  all  these  cases,  if  the  boundmg 
line  be  violently  broken  ; if  the  cornice  project,  or  the  upper 
l^ortion  of  the  pyramid  recede,  too  violently,  majesty  will  be 
lost ; not  because  the  building  cannot  be  seen  all  at  once, — 
for  in  the  case  of  a heavy  cornice  no  part  of  it  is  necessarily 
concealed — but  because  the  continuity  of  its  terminal  line  is 
broken,  and  the  length  of  that  line,  therefore,  cannot  be  esti- 
mated. But  the  error  is,  of  course,  more  fatal  when  much  of 
the  building  is  also  concealed ; as  in  the  well-known  case  of 
the  recession  of  the  dome  of  St.  Peter’s,  and,  from  the  greater 
number  of  points  of  view,  in  churches  whose  highest  portions, 
whether  dome  or  tower,  are  over  their  cross.  Thus  there  is 
only  one  point  from  which  the  size  of  the  Cathedral  of  Florence 
is  felt ; and  that  is  from  the  corner  of  the  Via  de’  Balestrieri, 
opposite  the  south-east  angle,  where  it  happens  that  the  dome 
is  seen  rising  instantly  above  the  apse  and  transepts.  In  all 
cases  in  which  the  tower  is  over  the  cross,  the  grandeur  and 
height  of  the  tower  itself  are  lost,  because  there  is  but  one  line 
down  which  the  eye  can  trace  the  whole  height,  and  that  is  in 
the  inner  angle  of  the  cross,  not  easily  discerned.  Hence, 
while,  in  symmetry  and  feeling,  such  designs  may  often  have 
pre-eminence,  yet,  where  the  height  of  the  tower  itself  is  to 
be  made  apparent,  it  must  be  at  the  west  end,  or  better  still, 
detached  as  a campanile.  Imagine  the  loss  to  the  Lombard 
churches  if  their  campaniles  were  carried  only  to  their  present 
height  over  their  crosses  ; or  to  the  Cathedral  of  Eouen,  if  the 
Tour  de  Beurre  were  made  central,  in  the  place  of  its  present 
debased  spire  ! 

VII.  Whether,  therefore,  we  have  to  do  with  tower  or  wall, 
there  must  be  one  bounding  line  from  base  to  coping  ; and  I 
am  much  inclined,  myself,  to  love  the  true  vertical,  or  the 
vertical,  with  a solemn  frown  of  projection  (not  a scowl),  as 
in  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  of  Florence.  This  chai’acter  is  always 
given  to  rocks  by  the  poets  ; with  slight  foundation  indeecL 


76 


THE  LAMP  OP  POWER 


real  rocks  being  little  given  to  overhanging — but  with  exceh 
lent  judgment ; for  the  sense  of  threatening  conveyed  by  thi,i 
form  is  a nobler  character  than  that  of  mere  size.  And,  in 
buildings,  this  threatening  should  be  somewhat  carried  down 
into  their  mass.  A mere  projecting  shelf  is  not  enough,  the 
whole  wall  must,  Jupiter  like,  nod  as  well  as  frown.  Hence, 
I think  the  2^1‘opped  machicolations  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio 
and  Duomo  of  Florence  far  grander  headings  than  any  form 
of  Greek  cornice.  Sometimes  the  jDrojection  may  be  thrown 
lower,  as  in  the  Doge’s  2:)alace  of  Venice,  where  the  chief  ap- 
l^earance  of  it  is  above  the  second  arcade  ; or  it  may  become 
a grand  swell  from  the  ground,  as  the  head  of  a ship  of  the 
line  rises  from  the  sea.  This  is  very  nobly  attained  by  the 
2:»rojection  of  the  niches  in  the  third  story  of  the  Tour  de 
Beurre  at  Bouen. 

Vni.  What  is  needful  in  the  setting  forth  of  magnitude  in 
height,  is  right  also  in  the  marking  it  in  area — let  it  be  gath- 
ered well  together.  It  is  especially  to  be  noted  with  respect 
to  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  and  other  mighty  buildings  of  its 
order,  how  mistakenly  it  has  been  stated  that  dimension,  in 
order  to  become  imjmessive,  should  be  expanded  either  in 
height  or  length,  but  not  equally : whereas,  rather  it  will  be 
found  that  those  buildings  seem  on  the  wFole  the  vastest 
which  have  been  gathered  up  into  a mighty  square,  and  which 
look  as  if  they  had  been  measured  by  the  angel’s  rod,  the 
length,  and  the  breadth,  and  the  height  of  it  are  equal,”  and 
herein  something  is  to  be  taken  notice  of,  which  I believe 
not  to  be  sufficiently,  if  at  all,  considered  among  our  archi= 
tects. 

Of  the  many  broad  divisions  under  which  architecture  may 
be  considered,  none  appear  to  me  more  significant  than  that 
into  buildings  whose  interest  is  in  their  walls,  and  those 
whose  interest  is  in  the  lines  dividing  their  walls.  In  the 
Greek  temjfie  the  wall  is  as  nothing ; the  entire  interest  is  in 
the  detached  columns  and  the  frieze  they  bear ; in  French 
Flamboyant,  and  in  our  detestable  Perpendicular,  the  object 
is  to  get  rid  of  the  wall  surface,  and  keep  the  eye  altogethei 
on  tracery  of  line  ; in  Romanesque  work  and  Egyptian,  the 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


77 


wall  is  a confessed  and  honored  member,  and  the  light  is 
often  allowed  to  fall  on  large  areas  of  it,  variously  decorated. 
Now,  both  these  principles  are  admitted  by  Nature,  the  one 
in  her  woods  and  thickets,  the  other  in  her  plains,  and  cliffs, 
and  waters  ; but  the  latter  is  pre-eminently  the  principle  of 
power,  and,  in  some  sense,  of  beauty  also.  For,  whatever  in- 
finity of  fair  form  there  may  be  in  the  maze  of  the  forest, 
there  is  a fairer,  as  I think,  in  the  surface  of  the  quiet  lake  ; 
and  I hardly  know  that  association  of  shaft  or  tracery,  for 
which  I would  exchange  the  warm  sleep  of  sunshine  on  some 
smooth,  broad,  human-like  front  of  marble.  Nevertheless,  if 
breadth  is  to  be  beautiful,  its  substance  must  in  some  sort  be 
beautiful ; and  we  must  not  hastily  condemn  the  exclusive 
resting  of  the  northern  architects  in  divided  lines,  until  at 
least  we  have  remembered  the  difference  between  a blank 
surface  of  Caen  stone,  and  one  mixed  from  Genoa  and  Car- 
rara, of  serpentine  with  snow  : but  as  regards  abstract  power 
and  awfulness,  there  is  no  question ; without  breadth  of  sur- 
face it  is  in  vain  to  seek  them,  and  it  matters  little,  so  that  the 
surface  be  wide,  bold  and  unbroken,  whether  it  be  of  brick  or 
of  jasper  ; the  light  of  heaven  upon  it,  and  the  weight  of  earth 
in  it,  are  all  we  need : for  it  is  singular  how  forgetful  the  mind 
may  become  both  of  material  and  workmanship,  if  only  it  have 
space  enough  over  which  to  range,  and  to  remind  it,  however 
feebly,  of  the  joy  that  it  has  in  contemplating  the  flatness 
and  sweep  of  great  plains  and  broad  seas.  And  it  is  a noble 
thing  for  men  to  do  this  with  their  cut  stone  or  moulded 
clay,  and  to  make  the  face  of  a wall  look  infinite,  and  its  edge 
against  the  sky  like  an  horizon  : or  even  if  less  than  this  be 
reached,  it  is  still  delightful  to  mark  the  play  of  passing  light 
on  its  broad  surface,  and  to  see  by  how  many  artifices  and 
gradations  of  tinting  and  shadow,  time  and  storm  will  set 
their  wild  signatures  upon  it  ; and  how  in  the  rising  or  de- 
clining of  the  day  the  unbroken  twilight  rests  long  and  lu- 
ridly on  its  high  lineless  forehead,  and  fades  away  untraceably 
down  its  tiers  of  confused  and  countless  stone. 

IX.  This,  then,  being,  as  I think,  one  of  the  peculiar  ele- 
ments of  sublime  architecture,  it  may  be  easily  seen  how  neces- 


78 


THE  LAMP  OF  FO  WER. 


sfirily  consequent  upon  the  love  of  it  will  be  the  choice  of  a 
form  approaching  to  the  square  for  the  main  outline. 

For,  in  whatever  direction  the  building  is  contracted,  in 
that  direction  the  eye  will  be  drawn  to  its  terminal  lines  ; and 
the  sense  of  surface  wdll  only  be  at  its  fullest  when  those  lines 
are  removed,  in  every  direction,  as  far  as  possible.  Thus  the 
^square  and  circle  are  jore-eminently  the  areas  of  power  among 
dhose  bounded  by  i:)urely  straight  or  curved  lines  ; and  these, 
with  their  relative  solids,  the  cube  and  sphere,  and  relative 
solids  of  progression  (as  in  the  investigation  of  the  laws  of 
proportion  I shall  call  those  masses  which  are  generated  by 
the  progression  of  an  area  of  given  form  along  a line  in  a 
given  direction),  the  square  and  cylindrical  column,  are  the 
elements  of  utmost  power  in  all  architectural  arrangements. 
On  the  other  hand,  grace  and  perfect  proportion  require  an 
elongation  in  some  one  direction  : and  a sense  of  power  may 
be  communicated  to  this  form  of  magnitude  by  a continuous 
series  of  any  marked  features,  such  as  the  eye  may  be  unable 
to  number  ; wdiile  yet  we  feel,  from  their  boldness,  decision, 
and  simplicity,  that  it  is  indeed  their  multitude  which  has 
embarrassed  us,  not  any  confusion  or  indistinctness  of  form. 
This  expedient  of  continued  series  forms  the  sublimity  of 
arcades  and  aisles,  of  all  ranges  of  columns,  and,  on  a smaller 
scale,  of  those  Greek  mouldings,  of  wdiich,  repeated  as  they 
now  are  in  all  the  meanest  and  most  familiar  forms  of  our  fur- 
niture, it  is  impossible  altogether  to  weary.  Now,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  the  architect  has  choice  of  two  types  of  form,  each 
juoperly  associated  with  its  owm  kind  of  interest  or  decora- 
tion : the  square,  or  greatest  area,  to  be  chosen  especially 
when  the  surface  is  to  be  the  subject  of  thought ; and  the 
elongated  area,  when  the  dwisions  of  the  surface  are  to  be  the 
subjects  of  thought.  Both  these  orders  of  form,  as  I think 
nearly  every  other  source  of  power  and  beauty,  are  marvel- 
lously united  in  that  building  which  I fear  to  weary  the  reader 
by  bringing  forward  too  frequently,  as  a model  of  all  jjerfec- 
tion — the  Doge’s  palace  at  Venice  : its  general  arrangement, 
a hollow  square  ; its  principal  fayade,  an  oblong,  elongated  to 
the  eye  by  a range  of  thirty-four  small  arches,  and  thirty-five 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


79 


columns,  while  it  is  se23aratecl  by  a richly-canopied  window  in 
the  centre,  into  two  massive  divisions,  whose  height  and  length 
are  nearly  as  four  to  five ; the  arcades  which  give  it  length 
being  confined  to  the  lower  stories,  and  the  upper,  between 
its  broad  windows,  left  a mighty  surface  of  smooth  marble, 
chequered  with  blocks  of  alternate  rose- color  and  white.  It 
would  be  impossible,  I believe,  to  invent  a more  magnificent 
arrangement  of  all  that  is  in  building  most  dignified  and  most 
fair. 

X.  In  the  Lombard  Romanesque,  the  two  principles  are 
more  fused  into  each  other,  as  most  characteristically  in  the 
Cathedral  of  Pisa  : length  of  projoortion,  exhibited  by  an  ar- 
cade of  twenty-one  arches  above,  and  fifteen  below,  at  the  side 
of  the  nave  ; bold  square  j)roportion  in  the  front ; that  front 
divided  into  arcades,  2)laced  one  above  the  other,  the  lowest 
with  its  pillars  engaged,  of  seven  arches,  the  four  uppermost 
thrown  out  boldly  from  the  receding  wall,  and  casting  deep 
shadows;  the  first,  above  the  basement,  of  nineteen  arches; 
the  second  of  twenty-one  ; the  third  and  fourth  of  eight  each  ; 
sixty-three  arches  in  all  ; all  circular  headed,  all  with  cylin- 
drical shafts,  and  the  lowest  with  square  panellings,  set  diag- 
onally under  their  semicircles,  an  universal  ornament  in  tills 
style  f Plate  XII.,  fig.  7)  ; the  ajose,  a semicircle,  with  a semi- 
dome for  its  roof,  and  three  ranges  of  circular  arches  for  its 
exterior  ornament ; in  the  interior  of  the  nave,  a range  of 
circular  arches  below  a circular-arched  triforium,  and  a vast 
flat  surface,  observe,  of  wall  decorated  with  striped  marble 
above  ; the  whole  arrangement  (not  a peculiar  one,  but  char- 
acteristic of  every  church  of  the  period  ; and,  to  my  feeling, 
the  most  majestic  ; not  perhajjs  the  fairest,  but  the  mightiest 
type  of  form  which  the  mind  of  man  has  ever  conceived) 
based  exclusively  on  associations  of  the  circle  and  the  square. 

I am  now,  however,  trenching  upon  ground  which  I desire 
to  reserve  for  more  careful  examination,  in  connection  with 
other  aesthetic  questions : but  I believe  the  examples  I have 
given  wiU  justify  my  vindication  of  the  square  form  from  the 
reprobation  which  has  been  lightly  thrown  upon  it ; nor  might 
this  be  done  for  it  only  as  a ruling  outline,  but  as  occurring 


80 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


constantly  in  the  best  mosaics,  and  in  a thousand  forms  ol 
minor  decoration,  which  I cannot  now  examine  ; my  chief 
assertion  of  its  majesty  being  always  as  it  is  an  exponent  of 
space  and  surface,  and  therefore  to  be  chosen,  either  to  rule  in 
their  outlines,  or  to  adorn  by  masses  of  light  and  shade  those 
portions  of  buildings  in  which  surface  is  to  be  rendered  pre- 
cious or  honorable. 

XI.  Thus  far,  then,  of  general  forms,  and  of  the  modes  in 
which  the  scale  of  architecture  is  best  to  be  exhibited.  Let 
us  next  consider  the  manifestations  of  power  which  belong  to 
its  details  and  lesser  divisions. 

The  first  division  we  have  to  regard,  is  the  inevitable  one 
of  masonry.  It  is  true  that  this  division  may,  by  great  art,  be 
concealed  ; but  I think  it  unwise  (as  well  as  dishonest)  to  do 
so  ; for  this  reason,  that  there  is  a very  noble  character  always 
to  be  obtained  by  the  opposition  of  large  stones  to  divided 
masonry,  as  by  shafts  and  columns  of  one  piece,  or  massy 
lintels  and  architraves,  to  wall  work  of  bricks  or  smaller  stones  ; 
and  there  is  a certain  organization  in  the  management  of  such 
parts,  like  that  of  the  continuous  bones  of  the  skeleton,  op- 
posed to  the  vertebrm,  which  it  is  not  well  to  surrender.  I 
hold,  therefore,  that,  for  this  and  other  reasons,  the  masonry 
of  a building  is  to  be  shown  : and  also  that,  with  certain  rare 
exceptions  (as  in  the  cases  of  chapels  and  shrines  of  most  fin- 
ished workmanship),  the  smaller  the  building,  the  more  neces- 
sary it  is  that  its  masonry  should  be  bold,  and  vice  versa. 
For  if  a building  be  under  the  mark  of  average  magnitude,  it 
is  not  in  our  power  to  increase  its  apparent  size  (too  easily 
measurable)  by  any  proportionate  diminution  in  the  scale  of 
its  masonry.  But  it  may  be  often  in  our  power  to  give  it  a 
certain  nobility  by  building  it  of  massy  stones,  or,  at  all  events, 
introducing  such  into  its  make.  Thus  it  is  impossible  that 
there  should  ever  be  majesty  in  a cottage  built  of  brick ; but 
there  is  a marked  element  of  sublimity  in  the  rude  and  irre- 
gular piling  of  the  rocky  walls  of  the  mountain  cottages  of 
Wales,  Cumberland,  and  Scotland.  Their  size  is  not  one  whit 
diminished,  though  four  or  five  stones  reach  at  their  angles 
from  the  ground  to  the  eaves,  or  though  a native  rock  happen 


THE  LAME  OF  POWER. 


8j 

to  231’ojecfc  conveniently,  and  to  be  built  into  the  frame'work  oi 
the  wall.  On  the  other  hand,  after  a building  has  once  reached 
the  mark  of  majestic  size,  it  matters,  indeed,  comparativelj 
little  whether  its  masonry  be  large  or  small,  but  if  it  be  al- 
together large,  it  will  sometimes  diminish  the  magnitude  for 
want  of  a measure  ; if  altogether  small,  it  will  suggest  ideas 
of  poverty  in  material,  or  deficiency  in  mechanical  resources 
besides  interfering  in  many  cases  with  the  lines  of  the  design, 
and  delicacy  of  the  workmanship.  A very  unhappy  instance 
of  such  interference  exists  in  the  fa5ade  of  the  church  of  St. 
Madeleine  at  Paris,  where  the  columns,  being  built  of  very 
small  stones  of  nearly  equal  size,  with  visible  joints,  look  as  if 
they  were  covered  with  a close  trellis.  So,  then,  that  masonry 
will  be  generally  the  most  magnificent  which,  without  the  use 
of  materials  systematically  small  or  large,  accommodates  itself, 
naturally  and  frankly,  to  the  conditions  and  structure  of  its 
work,  and  displays  alike  its  power  of  dealing  with  the  vastest 
masses,  and  of  accomplishing  its  2)nr2:>ose  with  the  smallest, 
sometimes  heaping  rock  uj^on  rock  with  Titanic  commandment, 
and  anon  binding  the  dusty  remnants  and  edgy  sjfiinters  into 
S2)ringing  vaults  and  swelling  domes.  And  if  the  nobility  of  this 
confessed  and  natural  masonry  were  more  commonly  felt,  we 
should  not  lose  the  dignity  of  it  by  smoothing  surfaces  and 
fitting  joints.  The  sums  which  we  waste  in  chiselling  and 
polishing  stones  which  would  have  been  better  left  as  they 
came  from  the  quarry  would  often  raise  a building  a story 
higher.  Only  in  this  there  is  to  be  a certain  respect  for 
material  also  : for  if  we  build  in  marble,  or  in  any  limestone, 
the  known  ease  of  the  workmanship  will  make  its  absence 
seem  slovenly  ; it  will  be  well  to  take  advantage  of  the  stone’s 
softness,  and  to  make  the  design  delicate  and  dependent  upon 
smoothness  of  chiselled  surfaces : but  if  we  build  in  granite 
or  lava,  it  is  a folly,  in  most  cases,  to  cast  away  the  labor 
necessary  to  smooth  it ; it  is  wiser  to  make  the  design  granitic 
itseK,  and  to  leave  the  blocks  rudely  squared.  I do  not  deny 
a certain  splendor  and  sense  of  2)ower  in  the  smoothing  of 
granite,  and  in  the  entire  subduing  of  its  iron  resistance  to 
the  human  supremacy.  But,  in  most  cases,  I believe,  the  labor 
6 


82 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


and  time  necessary  to  do  tliis  would  be  better  spent  in  anothei 
way ; and  that  to  raise  a building  to  a height  of  a hundred 
feet  with  rough  blocks,  is  better  than  to  raise  it  to  seventy 
with  smooth  ones.  There  is  also  a magnificence  in  the  natural 
cleavage  of  the  stone  to  which  the  art  must  indeed  be  gi-eat 
that  pretends  to  be  equivalent ; and  a stern  expression  of 
brotherhood  with  the  mountain  heart  from  which  it  has  been 
rent,  ill-exchanged  for  a glistering  obedience  to  the  rule  and 
measure  of  men.  His  eye  must  be  delicate  indeed,  who  would 
desire  to  see  the  Pitti  palace  polished. 

XII.  Next  to  those  of  the  masonry,  we  have  to  consider 
the  divisions  of  the  design  itself.  Those  divisions  are,  neces- 
sarily, either  into  masses  of  light  and  shade,  or  else  by  traced 
lines  ; which  latter  must  be,  indeed,  themselves  produced  by 
incisions  or  projections  which,  in  some  lights,  cast  a certain 
breadth  of  shade,  but  wdiich  may,  nevertheless,  if  finely  enough 
cut,  be  always  true  lines,  in  distant  effect.  I call,  for  instance, 
such  i^anelling  as  that  of  Henry  the  Seventh’s  chapel,  pure 
linear  division. 

Now,  it  does  not  seem  to  me  sufficiently  recollected,  that  a 
wall  surface  is  to  an  architect  simply  what  a white  canvas  is  to 
a jDainter,  with  this  only  difference,  that  the  wall  has  already  a 
sublimity  in  its  height,  substance,  and  other  characters  already 
considered,  on  wdiich  it  is  more  dangerous  to  break  than  to 
touch  with  shade  the  canvas  surface.  And,  for  my  own  part, 
I think  a smooth,  broad,  freshly  laid  surface  of  gesso  a fairer 
thing  than  most  pictures  I see  painted  on  it ; much  more,  a 
noble  surface  of  stone  than  most  architectural  features  which 
it  is  caused  to  assume.  But  however  this  may  be,  the  canvas 
and  wall  are  supposed  to  be  given,  and  it  is  our  craft  to  divide 
them. 

And  the  principles  on  which  this  division  is  to  be  made,  are 
as  regards  relation  of  quantities,  the  same  in  architecture  as 
in  painting,  or  indeed,  in  any  other  art  whatsoever,  only  the 
painter  is  by  his  varied  subject  partly  permitted,  partly  com- 
pelled, to  dispense  with  the  symmetry  of  architectural  light 
and  shade,  and  to  adopt  arrangements  apparently  free  and 
accidental  So  that  in  modes  of  grouping  there  is  much  difi 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


83 


ference  (though  no  opposition)  between  the  two  arts  ; but  in 
rules  of  quantity,  both  are  alike,  so  far  forth  as  their  com- 
mands of  means  are  alike.  For  the  architect,  not  being  able 
to  secure  always  the  same  depth  or  decision  of  shadow,  nor 
to  add  to  its  sadness  by  color  (because  even  when  color  is 
employed,  it  cannot  follow  the  moving  shade),  is  compelled 
to  make  many  allowances,  and  avail  himself  of  many  con- 
trivances, which  the  painter  needs  neither  consider  nor 
employ. 

Xin.  Of  these  limitations  the  first  consequence  is,  that 
positive  shade  is  a more  necessary  and  more  sublime  thing  in 
an  architect’s  hands  than  in  a painter’s.  For  the  latter  being 
able  to  temper  his  light  with  an  undeivtone  throughout,  and 
to  make  it  delightful  with  sweet  color,  or  awful  with  lurid 
color,  and  to  represent  distance,  and  air,  and  sun,  by  the 
depth  of  it,  and  fill  its  whole  space  with  expression,  can  deal 
with  an  enormous,  nay,  almost  with  an  universal  extent  of  it, 
and  the  best  painters  most  delight  in  such  extent ; but  as 
light,  with  the  architect,  is  nearly  always  liable  to  become  full 
and  untempered  sunshine  seen  upon  solid  surface,  his  only 
rests,  and  his  chief  means  of  sublimity,  are  definite  shades. 
So  that,  after  size  and  weight,  the  Power  of  architecture  may 
be  said  to  depend  on  the  quantity  (whether  measured  in  space 
or  intenseness)  of  its  shadow  ; and  it  seems  to  me,  that  the 
reality  of  its  works,  and  the  use  and  influence  they  have  in  the 
daily  life  of  men  (as  opposed  to  those  works  of  art  with  which 
we  have  nothing  to  do  but  in  times  of  rest  or  of  pleasure) 
require  of  |t  that  it  should  express  a kind  of  human  sympathy, 
by  a measure  of  darkness  as  great  as  there  is  in  human  life  : 
and  that  as  the  great  poem  and  great  fiction  generally  affect 
us  most  by  the  majesty  of  their  masses  of  shade,  and  cannot 
take  hold  upon  us  if  they  affect  a continuance  of  lyric  spright- 
liness, but  must  be  serious  often,  and  sometimes  melancholy, 
else  they  do  not  express  the  truth  of  this  wild  world  of  ours  ; 
so  there  must  be,  in  this  magnificently  human  art  of  architec- 
ture, some  equivalent  expression  for  the  trouble  and  wrath 
of  life,  for  its  sorrow  and  its  mystery  : and  this  it  can  only 
give  by  depth  or  diffusion  of  gloom,  by  the  frown  upon  its 


84 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER 


froni^  and  the  shadow  of  its  recess.  So  that  Rembrandtism 
is  a noble  manner  in  architecture,  thougli  a false  one  in  painb 
ing  ; and  I do  not  believe  that  ever  any  building  was  truly 
great,  unless  it  had  mighty  masses,  vigorous  and  deej:),  of 
shadow  mingled  with  its  surface.  And  among  the  first  habits 
that  a young  architect  should  learn,  is  that  of  thinking  in 
shadow,  not  looking  at  a design  in  its  miserable  liny  skeleton  ; 
ljut  conceiving  it  as  it  will  be  when  the  dawn  lights  it,  and 
the  dusk  leaves  it ; when  its  stones  will  be  hot  and  its  cran- 
nies cool  ; when  the  lizards  will  bask  on  the  one,  and  the 
birds  build  in  the  other.  Let  him  design  with  the  sense  of 
cold  and  heat  upon  him  ; let  him  cut  out  the  shadows,  as  men 
dig  wells  in  unwatered  plains  ; and  lead  along  the  lights,  as  a 
founder  does  his  hot  metal  ; let  him  keep  the  full  command  of 
both,  and  see  that  he  knows  how  they  fall,  and  where  they  fade. 
His  paper  lines  and  proportions  are  of  no  value  : all  that  he 
has  to  do  must  be  done  by  spaces  of  light  and  darkness  ; and 
his  business  is  to  see  that  the  one  is  broad  and  bold  enough 
not  to  be  swallowed  up  by  twilight,  and  the  other  deep  enough 
not  to  be  dried  like  a shallow  pool  by  a noon-day  sun. 

And  that  this  may  be,  the  first  necessity  is  that  the  quanti- 
ties of  shade  or  light,  whatever  they  may  be,  shall  be  thrown 
into  masses,  either  of  something  hke  equal  weight,  or  else 
large  masses  of  the  one  relieved  with  small  of  the  other  ; but 
masses  of  one  or  other  kind  there  must  be.  No  design  that 
is  divided  at  all,  and  is  not  divided  into  masses,  can  ever  be 
of  the  smallest  value  : this  great  law  respecting  breadth,  pre- 
cisely the  same  in  architecture  and  painting,  is  so  important, 
that  the  examination  of  its  two  principal  applications  will 
include  most  of  the  conditions  of  majestic  design  on  which  I 
would  at  present  insist. 

XIV.  Painters  are  in  the  habit  of  speaking  loosely  of  masses 
of  light  and  shade,  meaning  thereby  any  large  spaces  of 
either.  Nevertheless,  it  is  convenient  sometimes  to  restrict 
the  term  “ mass  ” to  the  portions  to  which  proper  form  be- 
longs, and  to  call  the  field  on  which  such  forms  are  traced, 
interval.  Thus,  in  foliage  with  projecting  boughs  or  stems, 
v/e  have  masses  of  light,  with  intervals  of  shade  ; and,  in 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER 


85 


light  skies  with  dark  clouds  upon  them,  masses  of  shade  with 
intervals  of  light. 

This  distinction  is,  in  architecture,  still  more  necessary  ; 
for  there  are  two  marked  styles  dependent  upon  it  : one  in 
which  the  forms  are  drawn  with  light  upon  darkness,  as  in 
Greek  sculpture  and  pillars ; the  other  in  which  they  are 
drawn  with  darkness  upon  light,  as  in  early  Gothic  foliation. 
Now,  it  is  not  in  the  designer’s  power  determinately  to  vary 
degrees  and  places  of  darkness,  but  it  is  altogether  in  his 
power  to  vary  in  determined  directions  his  degrees  of  light. 
Hence,  the  use  of  the  dark  mass  characterises,  generally,  a 
trenchant  style  of  design,  in  which  the  darks  and  lights  are 
both  flat,  and  terminated  by  sharp  edges  ; while  the  use  of 
the  light  mass  is  in  the  same  way  associated  Vv^ith  a softened 
and  full  manner  of  design,  in  which  the  darks  are  much 
warmed  by  reflected  lights,  and  the  lights  are  rounded  and 
melt  into  them.  The  term  applied  by  Milton  to  Doric  bas- 
relief — “ bossy,”  is,  as  is  generally  the  case  with  Milton’s 
epithets,  the  most  comprehensive  and  expressive  of  this  man- 
ner, which  the  English  language  contains ; while  the  term 
which  specifically  describes  the  chief  member  of  early  Gothic 
decoration,  feuille,  foil  or  leaf,  is  equally  significative  of  a 
flat  space  of  shade. 

XV.  We  shall  shortly  consider  the  actual  modes  in  which 
these  two  kinds  of  mass  have  been  treated.  And,  first,  of  the 
light,  or  rounded,  mass.  The  modes  in  which  relief  was  se- 
cured for  the  more  projecting  forms  of  bas-relief,  by  the 
Greeks,  have  been  too  well  described  by  Mr.  Eastlake  * to  need 
recapitulation  : the  conclusion  which  forces  itself  upon  us  from 
the  facts  he  has  remarked,  being  one  on  which  I shall  have  occa- 
sion farther  to  insist  presently,  that  the  Greek  workman  cared 
for  shadow  only  as  a dark  field  wherefrom  his  light  figure  or  de- 
sign might  be  intelligibly  detached : his  attention  was  concen- 
trated on  the  one  aim  at  readableness,  and  clearness  of  accent ; 
and  all  composition,  all  harmony,  nay,  the  very  vitality  and 
energy  of  separate  groups  were,  when  necessary,  sacrificed  to 
plain  speaking.  Nor  w'as  there  any  predilection  for  one  kind 
* Literature  of  tlie  Fine  Arts. — Essay  on  Bas-relief. 


80 


THE  LAMP  OF  Pi)  WFll 


of  form  rather  than  anotlier.  liounded  forms  were,  in  the 
columns  and  principal  decorative  members,  adopted,  not  for 
their  own  sake,  but  as  characteristic  of  the  things  represented. 
They  were  beautifully  rounded,  because  the  Greek  habitually 
did  well  what  he  had  to  do,  not  because  he  loved  roundness 
more  than  squareness  ; severely  rectilinear  forms  were  asso- 
ciated with  the  curved  ones  in  the  cornice  and  triglyph,  and  the 
mass  of  the  pillar  was  divided  by  a fluting,  which,  in  distant 
e fleet,  destroyed  much  of  its  breadth.  What  power  of  light 
these  primal  arrangements  left,  was  diminished  in  successive 
refinements  and  additions  of  ornament ; and  continued  to  di- 
minish through  Roman  work,  until  the  confirmation  of  the 
circular  arch  as  a decorative  feature.  Its  lovely  and  simple 
line  taught  the  eye  to  ask  for  a similar  boundary  of  solid  form  ; 
the  dome  followed,  and  necessarily  the  decorative  masses  were 
thenceforward  managed  with  reference  to,  and  in  sympathy 
with,  the  chief  feature  of  the  building.  Hence  arose,  among 
the  Byzantine  architects,  a system  of  ornament,  entmely  re- 
strained within  the  superfices  of  curvilinear  masses,  on  which 
the  light  fell  with  as  unbroken  gradation  as  on  a dome  or  col- 
umn, while  the  illumined  surface  was  nevertheless  cut  into 
details  of  singular  and  most  ingenious  intricacy.  Something 
is,  of  course,  to  be  allowed  for  the  less  dexterity  of  the  work- 
men ; it  being  easier  to  cut  down  into  a solid  block,  than  to 
arrange  the  projecting  portions  of  leaf  on  the  Greek  capital : 
such  leafy  capitals  are  nevertheless  executed  by  the  Byzantines 
with  skill  enough  to  show  that  their  preference  of  the  massive 
form  was  by  no  means  compulsory,  nor  can  I think  it  unwise. 
On  the  contrary,  while  the  arrangements  of  line  are  far  more 
artful  in  the  Greek  capital,  the  Byzantine  light  and  shade  are 
as  incontestably  more  grand  and  masculine,  based  on  that 
quality  of  pure  gradation,  w^hich  nearly  all  natural  objects 
possess,  and  the  attainment  of  which  is,  in  fact,  the  first  and 
most  palpable  purpose  in  natural  arrangements  of  grand  form. 
The  rolling  heap  of  the  thunder-cloud,  divided  by  rents,  and 
multiplied  by  wreaths,  yet  gathering  them  all  into  its  broad, 
torrid,  and  towering  zone,  and  its  midnight  darkness  oj^po- 
site  ; the  scarcely  less  majestic  heave  of  the  mountain  side,  all 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER 


87 


torn  and  traversed  by  depth  of  defile  and  ridge  of  rock,  yet 
never  losing  the  unity  of  its  illumined  swell  and  shadowy  de- 
cline ; and  the  head  of  every  mighty  tree,  rich  with  tracery  of 
leaf  and  bough,  yet  terminated  against  the  sky  by  a true  line, 
and  rounded  by  a green  horizon,  which,  multiplied  in  the  dis- 
tant forest,  makes  it  look  bossy  from  above  ; all  these  mark, 
for  a great  and  honored  law,  that  diffusion  of  light  for  w'hich 
the  Byzantine  ornaments  were  designed  ; and  show  us  that 
those  builders  had  truer  sympathy  with  what  God  made  majes- 
tic, than  the  self-contemplating  and  self-contented  Greek.  I 
know  that  they  are  barbaric  in  comparison  ; but  there  is  a 
power  in  their  barbarism  of  sterner  tone,  a powder  not  sophistic 
nor  penetrative,  but  embracing  and  mysterious  ; a power  faith- 
ful more  than  thoughtful,  which  conceived  and  felt  more  than 
it  created  ; a power  that  neither  comprehended  nor  ruled  it- 
self, but  worked  and  wandered  as  it  listed,  like  mountain 
streams  and  vdnds  ; and  which  could  not  rest  in  the  expression 
or  seizure  of  finite  form.  It  could  not  bury  itself  in  acanthus 
leaves.  Its  imagery  was  taken  from  the  shadows  of  the  storms 
and  hills,  and  had  fellowship  with  the  night  and  day  of  the 
earth  itself. 

XVI.  I have  endeavored  to  give  some  idea  of  one  of  the 
hollow  balls  of  stone  which,  surrounded  by  flowing  leafage, 
occur  in  varied  succession  on  the  architrave  of  the  central 
gate  of  St.  Mark’s  at  Venice,  in  Plate  I.  fig.  2.  It  seems  to 
me  singularly  beautiful  in  its  unity  of  lightness,  and  delicacy 
of  detail,  with  breadth  of  light.  It  looks  as  if  its  leaves  had 
been  sensitive,  and  had  risen  and  shut  themselves  into  a bud 
at  some  sudden  touch,  and  would  presently  fall  back  again 
into  their  wild  flow.  The  cornices  of  San  Michele  of  Lucca, 
seen  above  and  below  the  arch,  in  Plate  VI.,  show  the  effect 
of  heavy  leafage  and  thick  stems  arranged  on  a surface  whose 
curve  is  a simple  quadrant,  the  light  dying  from  off  them  as 
it  turns.  • It  would  be  difficult,  as  I think,  to  invent  anything 
more  noble  ; and  I insist  on  the  broad  character  of  their  ar~ 
rangement  the  more  earnestly,  because,  afterwards  modified 
by  greater  skill  in  its  management,  it  became  characteristic  of 
the  richest  pieces  of  Gothic  design.  The  capital,  given  in 


88 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER 


Plate  V.,  is  of  the  noblest  period  of  the  Venetian  Gothic  ; and 
it  is  interesting-  to  see  the  jday  of  leafage  so  luxuriant,  abso- 
lutely subordinated  to  the  Ijreadth  of  two  masses  of  light  and 
shade.  What  is  done  by  the  Venetian  architect,  with  a power 
as  irresistible  as  that  of  the  waves  of  his  surrounding  sea,  is 
done  by  the  masters  of  the  Cis-Alpine  Gothic,  more  timidly, 
and  with  a manner  somewhat  cramped  and  cold,  but  not  less 
expressing  their  assent  to  the  same  great  law.  The  ice  spic- 
ulse  of  the  North,  and  its  broken  sunshine,  seem  to  have 
image  in,  and  influence  on  the  work  ; and  the  leaves  which, 
under  the  Italian’s  hand,  roll,  and  flow,  and  bow  down  over 
their  black  shadows,  as  in  the  weariness  of  noon-day  heat,  are, 
in  the  North,  crisped  and  frost-bitten,  wrinkled  on  the  edges, 
and  sparkling  as  if  with  dew.  But  the  rounding  of  the  mling 
form  is  not  less  sought  and  felt.  Li  the  lower  part  of  Plate  I. 
is  the  finial  of  the  pediment  given  in  Plate  II. , from  the  cathe- 
dral of  St.  Lo.  It  is  exactly  similar  in  feeling  to  the  Bj^zan- 
tine  capital,  being  rounded  under  the  abacus  by  four  branches 
of  thistle  leaves,  whose  stems,  springing  from  the  angles,  bend 
outwards  and  fall  back  to  the  head,  throwing  their  jaggy 
spines  down  upon  the  full  light,  forming  two  sharp  quatre- 
foils.  I could  not  get  near  enough  to  this  finial  to  see  with 
-what  degree  of  delicacy  the  spines  were  cut  ; but  I have 
sketched  a natural  group  of  thistle-leaves  beside  it,  that  the 
reader  ma}^  compare  the  types,  and  see  with  what  mastery 
they  are  subjected  to  the  broad  form  of  the  whole.  The  small 
ca]3ital  from  Coutances,  Plate  XIII.  fig.  4,  wliich  is  of  earlier 
date,  is  of  simpler  elements,  and  exhibits  the  principle  still 
more  clearly  ; but  the  St.  Lo  finial  is  only  one  of  a thousand 
instances  which  might  be  gathered  even  from  the  fully  de- 
veloped flamboyant,  the  feeling  of  breadth  being  retained  in 
minor  ornaments  long  after  it  had  been  lost  in  the  main  de^ 
sign,  and  sometimes  capriciously  renewing  itself  throughout, 
as  in  the  cylindrical  niches  and  pedestals  which  enrich  the 
porches  of  Caudebec  and  Bouen.  Fig.  1,  Plate  I.  is  the  sim- 
plest of  those  of  Kouen  ; in  the  more  elaborate  there  are  four 
projecting  sides,  divided  by  buttresses  into  eight  rounded 
compartments  of  tracery  ; even  the  whole  bulk  of  the  outer 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER 


89 


pier  is  treated  with  the  same  feeling* ; and  though  composed 
partly  of  concave  recesses,  party  of  square  shafts,  partly  of 
statues  and  tabernacle  work,  arranges  itself  as  a whole  into 
one  richly  rounded  tower. 

XVII.  I cannot  here  enter  into  the  curious  questions  con- 
nected with  the  management  of  larger  curved  surfaces  ; into 
the  causes  of  the  difference  in  proportion  necessary  to  be 
observed  between  round  and  square  towers ; nor  into  the 
reasons  why  a column  or  ball  may  be  richly  ornamented, 
while  surface  decorations  would  be  inexpedient  on  masses 
like  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo,  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  or 
the  dome  of  St.  Peter’s.  But  what  has  been  above  said  of  the 
desireableness  of  serenity  in  plane  surfaces,  applies  still  more 
forcibly  to  those  which  are  curved  ; and  it  is  to  be  remem- 
bered that  we  are,  at  present,  considering  how  this  serenity 
and  power  may  be  carried  into  minor  divisions,  not  how  the 
ornamental  character  of  the  lower  form  may,  upon  occasion, 
be  permitted  to  fret  the  calmness  of  the  higher.  Nor,  though 
the  instances  we  have  examined  are  of  globular  or  cylindrical 
masses  chiefly,  is  it  to  be  thought  that  breadth  can  only  be 
secured  by  such  alone  : many  of  the  noblest  forms  are  of  sub- 
dued curvature,  sometimes  hardly  visible ; but  curvature  of 
some  degree  there  must  be,  in  order  to  secure  any  measure 
of  grandeur  in  a small  mass  of  light.  One  of  the  most 
marked  distinctions  between  one  artist  and  another,  in  the 
point  of  skill,  will  be  found  in  their  relative  delicacy  of  per- 
ception of  rounded  surface  ; the  full  power  of  expressing  the 
perspective,  foreshortening  and  various  undulation  of  such 
surface  is,  perhaps,  the  last  and  most  difficult  attainment  of 
the  hand  and  eye.  For  instance  : there  is,  perhaps,  no  tree 
which  has  baffied  the  landscape  painter  more  than  the  com- 
mon black  spruce  fir.  It  is  rare  that  we  see  any  representa- 
tion of  it  other  than  caricature.  It  is  conceived  as  if  it  grew 
in  one  plane,  or  as  a section  of  a tree,  with  a set  of  boughs 
symmetrically  dependent  on  opposite  sides.  It  is  thought 
formal,  unmanageable,  and  ugly.  It  would  be  so,  if  it  grew 
as  it  is  drawn.  But  the  power  of  the  tree  is  not  in  that  chan- 
delier-like section.  It  is  in  the  dark,  flat,  solid  tables  of 


90 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


leafage,  which  it  holds  out  on  its  strong  arms,  curved  slightly 
over  them  like  shields,  and  spreading  towards  the  extremity 
like  a hand.  It  is  vain  to  endeavor  to  paint  the  sharp,  grass}^, 
intricate  leafage,  until  this  ruling  form  has  been  secured  ; 
and  in  the  boughs  that  approach  the  S];)ectator,  the  foreshort- 
ening of  it  is  like  that  of  a wide  hill  country,  ridge  just  rising 
over  ridge  in  successive  distances  ; and  the  finger-like  ex- 
tremities, foreshortened  to  absolute  bluntness,  require  a deli- 
cacy in  the  rendering  of  them  like  that  of  the  drawing  of  the 
hand  of  the  Magdalene  upon  the  vase  in  Mr.  Kogers’s  Titian. 
Get  but  the  back  of  that  foliage,  and  you  have  the  tree  ; but 
I cannot  name  the  artist  who  has  thoroughly  felt  it.  So,  in 
all  drawing  and  sculpture,  it  is  the  power  of  rounding,  softly 
and  perfectly,  every  inferior  mass  which  preserves  the  seren- 
ity, as  it  follows  the  truth,  of  Nature,  and  which  demands  the 
highest  knowledge  and  skill  from  the  workman.  A noble  de- 
sign may  always  be  told  by  the  back  of  a single  leaf,  and  it 
was  the  sacrifice  of  this  breadth  and  refinement  of  surface  for 
sharp  edges  and  extravagant  undercutting,  which  destroyed 
the  Gothic  mouldings,  as  the  substitution  of  the  line  for  the 
light  destroyed  the  Gothic  tracery.  This  change,  however, 
we  shall  better  comprehend  after  we  have  glanced  at  the  chief 
conditions  of  arrangement  of  the  second  kind  of  mass  ; that 
which  is  flat,  and  of  shadow  only. 

XVm.  AVe  have  noted  above  how  the  waU  surface,  com- 
posed of  rich  materials,  and  covered  with  costly  work,  in 
modes  which  we  shall  examine  in  the  next  Chapter,  became  a 
subject  of  peculiar  interest  to  the  Christian  architects.  Its 
broad  flat  lights  could  only  be  made  valuable  by  points  or 
masses  of  energetic  shadow,  which  were  obtained  by  the  Eo- 
manesque  architect  by  means  of  ranges  of  recessed  arcade,  in 
the  management  of  which,  however,  though  all  the  effect  de- 
pends upon  the  shadow^  so  obtained,  the  eye  is  still,  as  in 
classical  architecture,  caused  to  dwell  upon  the  projecting  col- 
umns, capitals,  and  wall,  as  in  Plate  VI.  But  wfith  the  enlarge- 
ment of  the  wfindow,  which,  in  the  Lombard  and  Eomanesque 
churches,  is  usually  little  more  than  an  arched  slit,  came  the 
conception  of  the  simpler  mode  of  decoration,  by  penetrations 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


91 


which,  seen  from  within,  are  forms  of  light,  and,  from  without, 
are  foiTus  of  shade.  In  Italian  traceries  the  eye  is  exclusively 
fixed  upon  the  dark  forms  of  the  penetrations,  and  the  whole 
proportion  and  power  of  the  design  are  caused  to  depend 
upon  them.  The  intermediate  spaces  are,  indeed,  in  the  most 
perfect  eaidy  examples,  filled  with  elaborate  ornament ; but 
this  ornament  was  so  subdued  as  never  to  disturb  the  simplic- 
ity and  force  of  the  dark  masses  ; and  in  many  instances  is  en- 
tirely wanting.  The  composition  of  the  whole  depends  on  the 
proportioning  and  shaping  of  the  darks  ; and  it  is  impossible 
that  anything  can  be  more  exquisite  than  their  placing  in  the 
head  window  of  the  Giotto  campanile,  Plate  IX.,  or  the  church 
of  Or  San  Michele.  So  entirely  does  the  effect  depend  upon 
them,  that  it  is  quite  useless  to  draw  Italian  tracery  in  out- 
line ; if  with  any  intention  of  rendering  its  effect,  it  is  better 
to  mark  the  black  spots,  and  let  the  rest  alone.  Of  course, 
when  it  is  desired  to  obtain  an  accurate  rendering  of  the  de- 
sign, its  lines  and  mouldings  are  enough  ; but  it  often  hap- 
pens that  works  on  architecture  are  of  little  use,  because  they 
afford  the  reader  no  means  of  judging  of  the  effective  inten- 
tion of  the  arrangements  which  they  state.  No  person,  look- 
ing at  an  architectural  drawing  of  the  richly  foliaged  cusps 
and  intervals  of  Or  San  Michele,  would  understand  that  all 
this  sculpture  was  extraneous,  was  a mere  added  grace,  and 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  real  anatomy  of  the  work,  and 
that  by  a few  bold  cuttings  through  a slab  of  stone  he  might 
reach  the  main  effect  of  it  ail  at  once.  I have,  therefore,  in 
the  plate  of  the  design  of  Giotto,  endeavored  especially  to 
mark  these  points  of  purpose ; there,  as  in  every  other  in- 
stance, black  shadows  of  a graceful  form  lying  on  the  white 
surface  of  the  stone,  like  dark  leaves  laid  upon  snow.  Hence, 
as  before  observed,  the  universal  name  of  foil  applied  to  such 
ornaments. 

XIX.  In  order  to  the  obtaining  their  full  effect,  it  is  evident 
that  much  caution  is  necessary  in  the  management  of  the 
glass.  In  the  finest  instances,  the  traceries  are  open  lights, 
either  in  towers,  as  in  this  design  of  Giotto’s  or  in  external 
arcades  like  that  of  the  Campo  Santo  at  Pisa  or  the  Doge’s 


92 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


•palace  at  Venice  ; and  it  is  tlins  only  tLat  their  full  beauty  is 
shown.  In  domestic  buildings,  or  in  windows  of  churches 
necessarily  glazed,  the  glass  was  usually  withdrawn  entirely 
behind  the  traceries.  Those  of  the  Cathedral  of  Florence 
stand  quite  clear  of  it,  casting  their  shadows  in  well  detached 
lines,  so  as  in  most  lights  to  give  the  appearance  of  a double 
tracery.  In  those  few  instances  in  which  the  glass  was  set  in 
the  tracery  itself,  as  in  Or  San  Michele,  the  effect  of  the  latter 
is  half  destroyed : perhajos  the  especial  attention  paid  by 
Orgagna  to  his  surface  ornament,  was  connected  with  the  in- 
tention of  so  glazing  them.  It  is  siiigulai*  to  see,  in  late  archi- 
tecture, the  glass,  which  tormented  the  older  architects,  con- 
sidered as  a valuable  means  of  making  the  lines  of  tracery  more 
slender  ; as  in  the  smallest  intervals  of  the  windows  of  Merton 
College,  Oxford,  where  the  glass  is  advanced  about  two  inches 
from  the  centre  of  the  tracery  bar  (that  in  the  larger  sj^aces 
being  in  the  middle,  as  usual),  in  order  to  prevent  the  depth 
of  shadow  from  farther  diminishing  the  apparent  interval. 
Much  of  the  lightness  of  the  effect  of  the  traceries  is  owing 
to  this  seemingly  unimportant  arrangement.  But,  generally 
speaking,  glass  spoils-  all  traceries ; and  it  is  much  to  be 
wished  that  it  should  be  kept  well  within  them,  when  it  can- 
not be  dispensed  with,  and  that  the  most  careful  and  beauti- 
ful designs  should  be  reserved  for  situations  where  no  glass 
would  be  needed. 

XX.  The  method  of  decoration  by  shadow  was,  as  far  as 
we  have  hitherto  traced  it,  common  to  the  northern  and  south- 
ern Gothic.  But  in  the  carrying  out  of  the  system  they  in- 
stantly diverged.  Having  marble  at  his  command,  and  classi- 
cal decoration  in  his  sight,  the  southern  architect  was  able  to 
carve  the  intermediate  sj^aces  with  exquisite  leafage,  or  to  vary 
his  wall  surface  with  inlaid  stones.  The  northern  architect 
neither  knew  the  ancient  work,  nor  possessed  the  delicate 
material ; and  he  had  no  resource  but  to  cover  his  walls  with 
holes,  cut  into  foiled  shapes  like  those  of  the  windows.  This 
he  did,  often  with  great  clumsiness,  but  always  with  a vigors 
ous  sense  of  composition,  and  always,  observe,  depending  on 
the  shadows  for  effect.  Where  the  wall  was  thick  and  could 


TUE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


03 


not  be  cut  througii,  and  tlie  foilings  were  large,  tliose  shadows 
did  not  fill  the  entire  space  ; but  the  form  was,  nevertheless, 
drawn  on  the  eye  by  means  of  them,  and  when  it  was  possible, 
they  were  cut  clear  through,  as  in  raised  screens  of  pediment, 
like  those  on  the  west  front  of  Bayeux ; cut  so  deep  in  every 
case,  as  to  secure,  in  all  but  a direct  low  front  light,  great 
breadth  of  shadow. 

The  spandril,  given  at  the  top  of  Plate  VII.,  is  from  the 
southwestern  entrance  of  the  Cathedral  of  Lisieux  ; one  of 
the  most  quaint  and  interesting  doors  in  Normandy,  probably 
soon  to  be  lost  forever,  by  the  continuance  of  the  masonic 
operations  which  have  already  destroyed  the  northern  tower. 
Its  work  is  altogether  rude,  but  full  of  spirit ; the  opposite 
spandrils  have  different,  though  balanced,  ornaments  very  in- 
accurately adjusted,  each  rosette  or  star  (as  the  five-rayed  fig- 
ure, now  quite  defaced,  in  the  upper  portion  appears  to  have 
been)  cut  on  its  own  block  of  stone  and  fitted  in  with  small 
nicety,  especially  illustrating  the  point  I have  above  insisted 
upon — the  architect’s  utter  neglect  of  the  forms  of  interme- 
diate stone,  at  this  early  period. 

The  arcade,  of  which  a single  arch  and  shaft  are  given  on 
the  left,  forms  the  flank  of  the  door  ; three  outer  shafts  bear- 
ing three  orders  within  the  spandril  which  I have  drawn,  and 
each  of  these  shafts  carried  over  an  inner  arcade,  decorated 
above  with  quatre-foils,  cut  concave  and  filled  with  leaves,  the 
whole  disposition  exquisitely  picturesque  and  full  of  strange 
play  of  light  and  shade. 

For  some  time  the  penetrative  ornaments,  if  so  they  may 
be  for  convenience  called,  maintained  their  bold  and  inde* 
pendent  character.  Then  they  multiplied  and  enlarged,  be^ 
coming  shallower  as  they  did  so  ; then  they  began  to  run  to- 
gether, one  swallowing  up,  or  hanging  on  to,  another,  like 
bubbles  in  expiring  foam — fig.  4,  from  a spandril  at  Bayeux, 
looks  as  if  it  had  been  blown  from  a pipe  ; finally,  they  lost 
their  individual  character  altogether,  and  the  eye  was  made 
to  rest  on  the  separating  lines  of  tracery,  as  we  saw  before  in 
the  window  ; and  then  came  the  great  change  and  the  fall  of 
the  Gothic  power. 


THE  LAMP  OF  PC  WEU. 


DJ: 

XXI.  Figs.  2 and  3,  the  one  a quadrant  of  the  star  window 
of  the  little  chapel  close  to  St.  Anastasia  at  Verona,  and  the 
other  a very  singular  example  from  the  church  of  the  Eremi- 
tani  at  Padua,  compared  with  fig.  5,  one  of  the  ornaments  of 
the  transept  towers  of  Eouen,  show  the  closely  correspond- 
ent conditions  of  the  early  Northern  and  Southern  Gothic. 
But,  as  we  have  said,  the  Italian  architects,  not  being  embar- 
rassed for  decoration  of  wall  surface,  and  not  being  obliged, 
like  the  Northmen,  to  multiply  their  penetrations,  held  to  the 
system  for  some  time  longer  ; and  while  they  increased  the 
refinement  of  the  ornament,  kept  the  purity  of  the  plan. 
That  refinement  of  ornament  was  their  weak  point,  however, 
and  opened  the  way  for  the  renaissance  attack.  They  fell, 
like  the  old  Komans,  by  their  luxury,  except  in  the  separate 
instance  of  the  magnificent  school  of  Venice.  That  architect- 
ure began  with  the  luxuriance  in  which  all  others  expired : 
it  founded  itself  on  the  Byzantine  mosaic  and  fretw^ork  ; and 
laying  aside  its  ornaments,  one  by  one,  while  it  fixed  its  forms 
by  laws  more  and  more  severe,  stood  forth,  at  last,  a model 
of  domestic  Gothic,  so  grand,  so  complete,  so  nobly  systema- 
tised, that,  to  my  mind,  there  never  existed  an  architecture 
with  so  stern  a claim  to  our  reverence.  I do  not  except  even 
the  Greek  Doric  ; the  Doric  had  cast  nothing  away ; the  four- 
teenth century  Venetian  had  cast  away,  one  by  one,  for  a suc- 
cession of  centuries,  every  splendor  that  art  and  wealth  could 
give  it.  It  had  laid  down  its  crowm  and  its  jewels,  its  gold 
and  its  color,  like  a king  disrobing  ; it  had  resigned  its  exer- 
tion, like  an  athlete  reposing  ; once  capricious  and  fantastic, 
it  had  bound  itseli  by  laws  inviolable  and  serene  as  those  of 
nature  herself.  It  retained  nothing  but  its  beauty  and  its 
l^ower ; both  the  highest,  but  both  restrained.  The  Doric 
flutings  were  of  irregular  number — the  Venetian  mouldings 
were  unchangeable.  The  Doric  manner  of  ornament  admit- 
ted no  temptation,  it  was  the  fasting  of  an  anchorite — the 
Venetian  ornament  embraced,  while  it  governed,  all  vegetable 
and  animal  forms  ; it  was  the  temperance-  of  a man,  the  com- 
mand of  Adam  over  creation.  I do  not  know  so  magnificent 
a marking  of  human  authority  as  the  iron  grasp  of  the  Vene- 


THE  LAMP  OP  POWER 


95 


tian  over  his  own  exuberance  of  imagination  ; the  calm  and 
solemn  restraint  with  which,  his  mind  filled  with  thoughts  of 
flowing  leafage  and  fiery  life,  he  gives  those  thoughts  expres- 
sion for  an  instant,  and  then  withdraws  within  those  massy 
bars  and  level  cusps  of  stone." 

And  his  power  to  do  this  depended  altogether  on  his  re- 
taining the  forms  of  the  shadows  in  his  sight.  Far  from  car- 
rying the  eye  to  the  ornaments,  upon  the  stone,  he  abandoned 
these  latter  one  by  one  ; and  while  his  mouldings  received 
the  most  shapely  order  and  symmetry,  closely  correspondent 
wdth  that  of  the  Kouen  tracery,  compare  Plates  III.  and  A 111., 
he  kept  the  cusps  within  them  perfectly  flat,  decorated,  if  at 
all,  with  a trefoil  (Palazzo  Foscari),  or  fillet  (Doge’s  Palace) 
just  traceable  and  no  more,  so  that  the  quatrefoil,  cut  as 
sharply  through  them  as  if  it  had  been  struck  out  by  a stamp, 
told  upon  the  eye,  with  all  its  four  black  leaves,  miles  away. 
No  knots  of  flow^erwork,  no  ornaments  of  any  kind,  were  suf- 
fered to  interfere  with  the  purity  of  its  form  : the  cusp  is 
usually  quite  sharp  ; but  slightly  truncated  in  the  Palazzo 
Foscari,  and  charged  with  a simple  ball  in  that  of  the  Doge  ; 
and  tlie  glass  of  the  window,  where  there  was  any,  was,  as 
we  have  seen,  thrown  back  behind  the  stone-work,  that  no 
flashes  of  light  might  interfere  with  its  depth.  Corrupted 
forms,  like  those  of  the  Casa  d’Oro  and  Palazzo  Pisani,  and 
several  others,  only  serve  to  show  the  majesty  of  the  common  • 
design. 

XXII.*  Such  are  the  principal  circumstances  traceable  in  the 
treatment  of  the  two  kinds  of  masses  of  light  and  darkness, 
in  the  hands  of  the  earlier  architects  ; gradation  in  the  one, 
flatness  in  the  other,  and  breadth  in  both,  being  the  qualities 
sought  and  exliibited  by  every  possible  expedient,  up  to  the 
period  when,  as  we  have  before  stated,  the  line  was  substituted 
for  the  mass,  as  the  means  of  division  of  surface.  Enough 
has  been  said  to  illustrate  this,  as  regards  tracery  ; but  a word 
or  two  is  still  necessary  respecting  the  mouldings. 

Those  of  the  earher  times  were,  in  the  plurality  of  instances, 
composed  of  alternate  square  and  cylindrical  shafts,  variously 
associated  and  proportioned.  Where  concave  cuttings  occur. 


90 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER 


as  in  the  beautiful  west  doors  of  Bayeux,  they  are  between 
cylindrical  shafts,  which  they  throw  out  into  broad  light.  The 
eye  in  all  cases  dwells  on  broad  surfaces,  and  commonly  upon 
few.  In  course  of  time,  a low  ridgy  process  is  seen  emerging 
along  the  outer  .edge  of  the  cylindrical  shaft,  forming  a line  of 
liglit  upon  it  and  destroying  its  gradation.  Hardly  traceable 
at  first  (as  on  the  alternate  rolls  of  the  north  door  of  Eouen), 
it  grows  and  pushes  out  as  gradually  as  a stag’s  horns  : sharp 
at  first  on  the  edge  ; but,  becoming  prominent,  it  receives  a 
tmncation,  and  becomes  a definite  fillet  on  the  face  of  the  roll. 
Not  yet  to  be  checked,  it  pushes  forward  until  the  roll  itself  be- 
comes subordinate  to  it,  and  is  finally  lost  in  a slight  swell  upon 
its  sides,  while  the  concavities  have  all  the  time  been  deepen- 
ing and  enlarging  behind  it,  until,  from  a succession  of  square 
or  cylindrical  masses,  the  whole  moulding  has  become  a series 
of  concavities  edged  by  delicate  fillets,  u^^on  which  (sharp  Imes 
of  light,  observe)  the  eye  exclusively  rests.  While  this  has 
been  taking  place,  a similar,  though  less  total,  change  has 
affected  the  flowerwork  itself.  In  Plate  I.  fig.  2 (a),  I have 
given  two  from  the  transepts  of  Bouen.  It  will  be  observed 
how  absolutely  the  eye  rests  on  the  forms  of  the  leaves,  and 
on  the  three  berries  in  the  angle,  being  in  light  exactly  what 
the  trefoil  is  in  darkness.  These  mouldings  nearly  adhere  to 
the  stone  ; and  are  very  slightly,  though  shai-ply,  undercut. 

• In  process  of  time,  the  attention  of  the  architect,  instead  of 
resting  on  the  leaves,  went  to  the  stalks.  These  latter  were 
elongated  (6,  from  the  south  door  of  St.  Lo) ; and  to  exhibit 
them  better,  the  deep  concavity  w^as  cut  behind,  so  as  to  throw 
them  out  in  hues  of  light.  The  system  was  carried  out  into 
continually  increasing  intricacy,  until,  in  the  transepts  of 
Beauvais,  we  have  brackets  and  flamboyant  traceries,  com- 
posed of  twigs  without  any  leaves  at  all.  This,  however,  is  a 
partial,  though  a sufficiently  characteristic,  capiice,  the  leaf 
being  never  generahy  banished,  and  in  the  mouldings  round 
those  same  doors,  beautifully  managed,  but  itself  rendered 
liny  by  bold  marking  of  its  ribs  and  veins,  and  by  turning  up, 
and  crisping  its  edges,  large  intermediate  spaces  being  always 
left  to  be  occupied  by  intertwining  stems  (c,  from  Caudebec). 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


97 


The  trefoil  of  light  formed  by  berries  or  acorns,  though  di- 
minished in  value,  was  never  lost  up  to  the  last  period  of  living 
Gothic. 

XXin.  It  is  interesting  to  follow  into  its  many  ramifica- 
tions, the  influence  of  the  corrupting  principle ; but  we  have 
seen  enough  of  it  to  enable  us  to  draw  our  practical  conclusion 
— a conclusion  a thousand  times  felt  and  reiterated  in  the  ex- 
perience and  advice  of  every  practised  artist,  but  never  often 
enough  repeated,  never  profoundly  enough  felt.  Of  composi- 
tion and  invention  much  has  been  written,  it  seems  to  me 
vainly,  for  men  cannot  be  taught  to  compose  or  to  invent ; of 
these,  the  highest  elements  of  Power  in  architecture,  I do  not, 
therefore,  speak ; nor,  here,  of  that  peculiar  restraint  in  the 
imitation  of  natural  forms,  which  constitutes  the  dignity  of 
even  the  most  luxuriant  work  of  the  great  periods.  Of  this 
restraint  I shall  say  a word  or  two  in  the  next  Chapter ; press- 
ing now  only  the  conclusion,  as  practically  useful  as  it  is  cer- 
tain, that  the  relative  majesty  of  buildings  depends  more  on 
the  weight  and  vigor  of  their  masses  than  on  any  other  attri- 
bute of  their  design  : mass  of  everything,  of  bulk,  of  light,  of 
dai'kness,  of  color,  not  mere  sum  of  any  of  these,  but  breadth 
of  them  ; not  broken  light,  nor  scattered  darkness,  nor  divided 
w^eight,  but  solid  stone,  broad  sunshine,  starless  shade.  Time 
would  fail  me  altogether,  if  I attempted  to  follow  out  the  range 
of  the  principle  ; there  is  not  a feature,  however  apparently 
trifling,  to  which  it  cannot  give  power.  The  wooden  fillings 
of  belfry  lights,  necessary  to  protect  their  interiors  from  rain, 
are  in  England  usually  divided  into  a number  of  neatly  exe- 
cuted cross-bars,  like  those  of  Venetian  blinds,  which,  of 
course,  become  as  conspicuous  in  their  sharpness  as  they  are 
uninteresting  in  their  precise  carpentry,  multiplying,  more- 
over, the  liorizontal  lines  which  directly  contradict  those  of 
the  architecture.  Abroad,  such  necessities  are  met  by  three 
or  four  downright  penthouse  roofs,  reaching  each  from  within 
the  window  to  the  outside  shafts  of  its  mouldings  ; instead  of 
the  horrible  row  of  ruled  lines,  the  space  is  thus  divided  into 
four  or  five  grand  masses  of  shadow,  with  grey  slopes  of  roof 
above,  bent  or  yielding  into  all  kinds  of  delicious  swells  and 
7 


08 


THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 


curves,  and  covered  with  warm  tones  of  moss  and  lichen.  Ver)'' 
often  the  thing  is  more  delightful  than  the  stone-work  itself, 
and  all  because  it  is  broad,  dark,  and  simple.  It  matters  not 
how  clumsy,  how  common,  the  means  are,  that  get  weight  and 
shadow — sloping  roof,  jutting  porch,  projecting  balcony,  hol- 
low niche,  massy  gargoyle,  frowning  parapet ; get  but  gloom 
and  simplicity,  and  all  good  things  will  follow  in  their  place 
and  time  ; do  but  design  with  the  owl’s  eyes  first,  and  you  will 
gain  the  falcon’s  afterwards. 

XXIV.  I am  grieved  to  have  to  insist  upon  what  seems  so 
simple  ; it  looks  trite  and  commonplace  when  it  is  written, 
but  pardon  me  this  : for  it  is  anything  but  an  accepted  or  un- 
derstood principle  in  practice,  and  the  less  excusably  forgot- 
ten, because  it  is,  of  all  the  great  and  true  laws  of  art,  the 
easiest  to  obey.  The  executive  facility  of  complying  with  its 
demands  cannot  be  too  earnestly,  too  frankly  asserted.  There 
are  not  five  men  in  the  kingdom  who  could  compose,  not 
twenty  who  could  cut,  the  foliage  with  which  the  windows  of 
Or  San  Michele  are  adorned  ; but  there  is  many  a village 
clergyman  who  could  invent  and  dispose  its  black  openings, 
and  not  a village  mason  wdio  could  not  cut  them.  Lay  a few 
clover  or  wood-roof  leaves  on  white  paper,  and  a little  altera- 
tion in  their  positions  wiU  suggest  figures  which,  cut  boldly 
through  a slab  of  marble,  would  be  worth  more  window  tra- 
ceries than  an  architect  could  draw  in  a summer’s  day.  There 
are  few  men  in  the  w^oiid  who  could  design  a Greek  ca^ntal  ; 
there  are  few  who  could  not  produce  some  vigor  of  effect  with 
leaf  designs  on  Byzantine  block  : few  who  could  design  a Pal- 
ladian  front,  or  a flamboyant  pediment ; many  wdio  could 
build  a square  mass  like  the  Strozzi  palace.  But  I know  not 
how  it  is,  unless  that  our  English  hearts  have  more  oak  than 
stone  in  them,  and  have  more  filial  sympathy  with  acorns  than 
Alps  ; but  all  that  we  do  is  small  and  mean,  if  not  wmrse — 
thin,  and  wasted,  and  unsubstantial.  It  is  not  modern  work 
only  ; we  have  built  like  frogs  and  mice  since  the  thirteenth 
century  (except  only  in  our  castles).  What  a contrast  be- 
tween the  pitiful  little  pigeon-holes  which  stand  for  doors  in 
the  east  front  of  Salisbury,  looking  like  the  entrances  to  a bee- 


THE  LAMP  OP  POWER. 


99 


liive  or  a wasp’s  nest,  and  the  soaring  arches  and  kingly 
crowning  of  the  gates  of  Abbeville,  Eouen,  and  Eheims,  or  the 
rock-hewn  piers  of  Chartres,  or  the  dark  and  vaulted  porches 
and  writhed  pillars  of  Verona  ! Of  domestic  architecture 
what  need  is  there  to  speak  ? How  small,  how  cramped,  how 
poor,  how  miserable  in  its  petty  neatness  is  our  best ! how 
beneath  the  mark  of  attack,  and  the  level  of  contempt,  that 
which  is  common  with  us  ! What  a strange  sense  of  for- 
malised deformity,  of  shrivelled  precision,  of  starved  accu- 
racy, of  minute  misanthropy  have  we,  as  we  leave  even  the 
rude  streets  of  Picardy  for  the  market  towns  of  Kent ! Until 
that  street  architecture  of  ours  is  bettered,  until  we  give  it 
some  size  and  boldness,  until  we  give  our  windows  recess, 
and  our  walls  thickness,  I know  not  how  we  can  blame  our 
architects  for  their  feebleness  in  more  important  work  ; their 
eyes  are  inured  to  narrowness  and  slightness  : can  we  expect 
them  at  a word  to  conceive  and  deal  with  breadth  and  solidity  ? 
They  ought  not  to  live  in  our  cities  ; there  is  that  in  their  i 
miserable  walls  which  bricks  up  to  death  men’s  imaginations,  ! 
as  surely  as  ever  perished  forsworn  nun.  An  architect  should 
live  as  little  in  cities  as  a painter.  Send  him  to  our  hills,  and  ) 
let  him  study  there  what  nature  understands  by  a buttress,  j 
and  what  by  a dome.  There  was  something  in  the  old  power 
of  architecture,  which  it  had  from  the  recluse  more  than  from 
the  citizen.  The  buildings  of  which  I have  spoken  with  chief 
praise,  rose,  indeed,  out  of  the  war  of  the  piazza,  and  above 
the  fury  of  the  populace  : and  Heaven  forbid  that  for  such 
cause  we  should  ever  have  to  lay  a larger  stone,  or  rivet  a 
firmer  bar,  in  our  England  ! But  we  have  other  sources  of 
power,  in  the  imagery  of  our  iron  coasts  and  azure  hills  ; of 
power  more  pure,  nor  less  serene,  than  that  of  the  hermit 
spirit  which  once  lighted  with  white  lines  of  cloisters  the 
glades  of  the  Alpine  pine,  and  raised  into  ordered  spires  the 
wdld  rocks  of  the  Norman  sea  ; which  gave  to  the  temple  gate 
the  depth  and  darkness  of  Elijah’s  Horeb  cave  ; and  lifted, 
out  of  the  populous  city,  grey  cliffs  of  lonely  stone,  into  the 
midst  of  sailing  birds  and  silent  air. 


100 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 

I.  It  wfis  stated,  in  the  outset  of  the  preceding  chapter, 
that  the  value  of  architecture  depended  on  two  distinct  char 
acters  : the  one,  the  impression  it  receives  from  human  power  ; 
the  other,  the  image  it  bears  of  the  natural  creation.  I have 
endeavored  to  show  in  what  manner  its  majesty  was  attribu- 
table to  a sympathy  with  the  effort  and  trouble  of  human  life 
(a  sympathy  as  distinctly  perceived  in  the  gloom  and  mystery 
of  form,  as  it  is  in  the  melancholy  tones  of  sounds).  I desire 
now  to  trace  that  happier  element  of  its  excellence,  consisting 
in  a noble  rendering  of  images  of  Beauty,  derived  chiefly  from 
the  external  appearances  of  organic  nature. 

It  is  irrelevant  to  our  present  pur^^ose  to  enter  into  any  in- 
quiry respecting  the  essential  causes  of  impressions  of  beauty. 
I have  partly  expressed  my  thoughts  on  this  matter  in  a pre. 
vious  work,  and  I hoj)e  to  develope  them  hereafter.  But  since 
all  such  inquiries  can  only  be  founded  on  the  ordinary  under- 
standing of  what  is  meant  by  the  term  Beauty,  and  since  they 
presume  that  the  feeling  of  mankind  on  this  subject  is  univer- 
sal and  instinctive,  I shall  base  my  present  investigation  on 
this  assumption  ; and  only  asserting  that  to  be  beautiful  which 
I believe  Avill  be  granted  me  to  be  so  without  dispute,  I would 
endeavor  shortly  to  trace  the  manner  in  which  this  element  of 
dehght  is  to  be  best  engrafted  upon  architectural  design,  what 
are  the  purest  sources  from  which  it  is  to  be  derived,  and  what 
the  errors  to  be  avoided  in  its  pursuit. 

II.  It  wiU  be  thought  that  I have  somewhat  rashly  limited 
the  elements  of  architectm’al  beauty  to  imitative  forms.  I do 
not  mean  to  assert  that  every  arrangement  of  hue  is  directly 
suggested  by  a natural  object  ; but  that  all  beautiful  lines  are 
adaptations  of  those  which  are  commonest  in  the  external  cre- 
ation ; that  in  proportion  to  the  richness  of  their  association, 
the  resemblance  to  natural  work,  as  a t}q)e  and  help,  must  be 
more  closely  attempted,  and  more  clearly  seen ; and  that  be- 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


101 


yond  a certain  point,  and  that  a very  low  one,  man  cannot  ad- 
vance in  the  invention  of  beauty,  without  directly  imitating 
natural  form.  Thus,  in  the  Doric  temple,  the  trigly^di  and 
cornice  are  unimitative  ; or  imitative  only  of  artificial  cuttings 
of  wood.  No  one  would  call  these  members  beautiful.  Their 
influence  over  us  is  in  their  severity  and  simplicity.  The 
fluting  of  the  column,  which  I doubt  not  was  the  Greek  sym- 
bol of  the  bark  of  the  tree,  was  imitative  in  its  origin,  and 
feebly  resembled  manj^  caniculated  organic  structures.  Beauty 
is  instantly  felt  in  it,  but  of  a low  order.  The  decoration 
proper  was  sought  in  the  true  forms  of  organic  life,  and  those 
chiefly  human.  Again  : the  Doric  capital  was  unimitative ; 
but  all  the  beauty  it  had  was  dependent  on  the  precision  of 
its  ovolo,  a natural  curve  of  the  most  frequent  occurrence. 
The  Ionic  capital  (to  my  mind,  as  an  architectural  invention, 
exceedingly  base)  nevertheless  depended  for  all  the  beauty 
that  it  had  on  its  adoption  of  a spiral  line,  perhaps  the  com- 
monest of  all  that  characterise  the  inferior  orders  of  animal 
organism  and  habitation.  Farther  progress  could  not  be 
made  without  a direct  imitation  of  the  acanthus  leaf. 

Again  : the  Komanesque  arch  is  beautiful  as  an  abstract 
line.  Its  type  is  always  before  us  in  that  of  the  apparent 
vault  of  heaven,  and  horizon  of  the  earth.  The  cylindrical 
pillar  is  always  beautiful,  for  God  has  so  moulded  the  stem  of 
every  tree  that  it  is  pleasant  to  the  eyes.  The  pointed  arch 
is  beautiful ; it  is  the  termination  of  every  leaf  that  shakes  in 
summer  wind,  and  its  most  fortunate  associations  are  directly 
borrowed  from  the  trefoiled  grass  of  the  field,  or  from  the 
stars  of  its  flowers.  Further  than  this,  man’s  invention  could 
not  reach  without  frank  imitation.  His  next  step  was  to 
gather  the  flowers  themselves,  and  wreathe  them  in  his  capi- 
tals. 

in.  Now,  I would  insist  especially  on  the  fact,  of  which  I 
doubt  not  that  further  illustrations  will  occur  to  the  mind  of 
every  reader,  that  all  most  lovely  forms  and  thoughts  are  di- 
rectly taken  from  natural  objects  ; because  I would  fain  be 
allowed  to  assume  also  the  converse  of  this,  namely,  that 
forms  which  are  not  taken  from  natural  objects  must  be  ugly. 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


102 

I know  this  is  a bold  assumption  ; but  as  I have  not  space  to 
reason  out  the  points  wherein  essential  beauty  of  form  con- 
sists, that  being  far  tojo  serious  a work  to  be  undertaken  in  a 
bye  way,  I have  no  other  resource  than  to  use  this  accidental 
mark  or  test  of  beauty,  of  whose  truth  the  considerations 
which  I hoj^e  hereafter  to  lay  before  the  reader  may  assure 
him.  I say  an  accidental  mark,  since  forms  are  not  beautiful 
because  they  are  copied  from  nature  ; only  it  is  out  of  the 
power  of  man  to  conceive  beauty  without  her  aid.  I believe 
the  reader  will  grant  me  this,  even  from  the  examples  above 
advanced ; the  degree  of  confidence  with  which  it  is  granted 
must  attach  also  to  his  acceptance  of  the  conclusions  which 
will  follow  from  it ; but  if  it  be  granted  frankly,  it  will  enable 
me  to  determine  a matter  of  very  essential  imj^ortance,  name- 
ly, what  is  or  is  not  ornament.  For  there  are  many  forms  of 
so-caUed  decoration  in  architecture,  habitual,  and  received, 
therefore,  with  approval,  or  at  all  events  without  any  venture 
at  expression  or  dislike,  which  I have  no  hesitation  in  assert- 
ing to  be  not  ornament  at  all,  but  to  be  ugly  things,  the  ex- 
pense of  which  ought  in  truth  to  be  set  dowm  in  the  archi- 
tect’s contract,  as  ‘'For  Monstrification.”  I believe  that  wo 
regard  these  customary  deformities  with  a savage  compla- 
cency, as  an  Indian  does  his  flesh  patterns  and  paint  (all  na- 
tions being  in  certain  degrees  and  senses  savage).  I believe 
that  I can  prove  them  to  be  monstrous,  and  I hope  hereafter 
to  do  so  conclusively ; but,  meantime,  I can  allege  in  defence 
of  my  persuasion  nothing  but  this  fact  of  their  being  unnat- 
ural, to  which  the  reader  must  attach  such  weight  as  he 
thinks  it  deserves.  There  is,  howevei’,  a peculiar  difficulty  in 
using  this  proof  ; it  requires  the  writer  to  assume,  very  im- 
pertinently, that  nothing  is  natural  but  what  he  has  seen  or 
supposes  to  exist.  I would  not  do  this  ; for  I suppose  there 
is  no  conceivable  form  or  grouping  of  forms  but  in  some  part 
of  the  universe  an  example  of  it  may  be  found.  But  I think  I 
am  justified  in  considering  those  forms  to  be  most  natural 
' which  are  most  frequent ; or,  rather,  that  on  the  shapes  which 
in  the  every-day  world  are  familiar  to  the  eyes  of  men,  God 
has  stamped  those  characters  of  beauty  which  He  has  made 


TUE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


103 


it  man’s  nature  to  love  ; while  in  certain  exceptional  forms 
He  has  shown  that  the  adoption  of  the  others  was  not  a 
matter  of  necessity,  but  part  of  the  adjusted  harmony  of  crea- 
tion. I beheve  that  thus  we  may  reason  from  Frequency  to 
Beauty,  and  mce  versd  ; that  knowing  a thing  to  be  frequent, 
we  may  assume  it  to  be  beautiful ; and  assume  that  which  is 
most  frequent  to  be  most  beautiful : I mean,  of  course,  visibly 
frequent ; for  the  forms  of  things  which  are  hidden  in  caverns 
of  the  earth,  or  m the  anatomy  of  animal  frames,  are  evidently 
not  intended  by  their  Maker  to  bear  the  habitual  gaze  of  man. 
And,  again,  by  frequency  I mean  that  limited  and  isolated 
frequency  which  is  characteristic  of  all  perfection  ; not  mere 
multitude  : as  a rose  is  a common  flower,  but  yet  there  are 
not  so  many  roses  on  the  tree  as  there  are  leaves.  In  this  re- 
spect Nature  is  sparing  of  her  highest,  and  lavish  of  her  less, 
beauty  ; but  I call  the  flower  as  frequent  as  the  leaf,  because, 
each  in  its  allotted  quantity,  where  the  one  is,  there  will  ordi- 
narily be  the  other. 

IV.  The  flrst  so-called  ornament,  then,  which  I would  at- 
tack is  that  Greek  fret,  now,  I believe,  usually  known  by  the 
Italian  name  Guilloche,  which  is  exactly  a case  in  point.  It 
so  happens  that  in  crystals  of  bismuth  formed  by  the  unagi- 
tated cooling  of  the  melted  metal,  there  occurs  a natural  re- 
semblance of  it  almost  perfect.  But  crystals  of  bismuth  not 
only  are  of  unusual  occurrence  in  every-day  life,  but  their 
form  is,  as  far  as  I know,  unique  among  minerals  ; and  not 
only  unique,  but  only  attainable  by  an  artificial  process,  the 
metal  itself  never  being  found  pure.  I do  not  remember  any 
other  substance  or  arrangement  which  presents  a resemblance 
to  this  Greek  ornament ; and  I think  that  I may  trust  my  re- 
membrance as  including  most  of  the  arrangements  which 
occur  in  the  outward  forms  of  common  and  familiar  things. 
On  this  ground,  then,  I allege  that  ornament  to  be  ugly  ; or, 
in  the  literal  sense  of  the  word,  monstrous  ; different  from 
anything  which  it  is  the  nature  of  man  to  admire : and  I 
think  an  uncarved  fillet  or  plinth  infinitely  preferable  to  one 
covered  with  this  vile  concatenation  of  straight  lines  : unless 
indeed  it  be  employed  as  a foil  to  a true  ornament,  which  it 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


3 04 

may,  perhaps,  sometimes  with  advantage  ; or  excessively  small^ 
as  it  occurs  on  coins,  the  harshness  of  its  arrangement  being 
less  perceived. 

1 V.  Often  in  association  with  this  horrible  design  we  find, 
in  Greek  works,  one  which  is  as  beautiful  as  this  is  painful — 
that  egg  and  dart  moulding,  whose  perfection  in  its  jfiace  and 
way,  has  never  been  surpassed.  And  why  is  this?  Simply 
because  the  form  of  which  it  is  chiefly  composed  is  one  not 
only  familiar  to  us  in  the  soft  housing  of  the  bird’s  nest,  but 
haj^pens  to  be  that  of  nearly  every  pebble  that  rolls  and  mur- 
murs under  the  surf  of  the  sea,  on  all  its  endless  shore.  And 
with  that  a peculiar  accuracy  ; for  the  mass  which  bears  the 
light  in  this  moulding  is  not  in  good  Greek  work,  as  in  the 
frieze  of  the  Erechtheum,  merely  of  the  shape  of  an  egg.  It 
is  flattened  on  the  upper  surface,  with  a delicacy  and  keen 
sense  of  variety  in  the  curve  which  it  is  impossible  too  highly/ 
to  praise,  attaining  exactly  that  flattened,  imperfect  oval, 
which,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  will  be  the  form  of  the  pebble 
lifted  at  random  from  the  rolled  beach.  Leave  out  this  flat- 
ness, and  the  moulding  is  vulgar  instantly.  It  is  singular 
also  that  the  insertion  of  this  rounded  form  in  the  hollow 
recess  has  a painted  type  in  the  plumage  of  the  Argus  j^heas- 
ant,  the  eyes  of  whose  feathers  are  so  shaded  as  exactly  to 
represent  an  oval  form  placed  in  a hollow. 

VI.  It  will  evidently  follow,  upon  our  application  of  this 
test  of  natural  resemblance,  that  we  shall  at  once  conclude 
that  all  perfectly  beautiful  forms  must  be  composed  of  curves ; 
since  there  is  hardly  any  common  natural  form  in  which  it  is 
possible  to  discover  a straight  line.  Nevertheless,  Architect- 
ure, having  necessarily  to  deal  with  straight  lines  essential 
to  its  iDurposes  in  many  instances  and  to  the  expression  of  its 
power  in  others,  must  frequently  be  content  with  that  meas- 
ure of  beauty  which  is  consistent  with  such  primal  forms  ; 
and  we  may  presume  that  utmost  measure  of  beauty  to  have 
been  attained  when  the  arrangements  of  such  lines  are  con- 
sistent with  the  most  frequent  natural  groupings  of  them  we 
Ciin  discover,  although,  to  find  right  lines  in  nature  at  aU,  we 
may  be  compelled  to  do  violence  to  her  finished  work,  break 


TIIK  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


105 


through  the  sculptured  und  colored  surfaces  of  her  crags,  and 
examine  the  processes  of  their  ci^stallisation. 
fj  VIL  I have  just  convicted  the  Greek  fret  of  ugliness,  be- 
cause it  has  no  precedent  to  allege  for  its  arrangement  except 
an  artificial  form  of  a rare  metal.  Let  us  bring  into  court  an 
ornament  of  Lombard  architects,  Plate  XII.,  fig.  7,  as  exclu- 
sively composed  of  right  lines  as  the  other,  only,  observe,  with 
the  noble  element  of  shadow  added.  This  ornament,  taken 
fipm  the  front  of  the  Cathedral  of  Pisa,  is  universal  through- 
our  the  Lombard  ctrarclf^"  of  Pisa~Lucca,  Pistoja,  and  Flo- 
rence ; and  it  will  be  a grave  stain  upon  them  if  it  cannot 
be  defended.  Its  first  apology  for  itself,  made  in  a hurry, 
sounds  marvellously  like  the  Greek  one,  and  highly  dubious. 
It  says  that  its  terminal  contour  is  the  very  image  of  a care- 
fully prepared  artificial  crystal  of  common  salt.  Salt  being, 
however,  a substance  considerably  more  familiar  to  us  than 
bismuth,  the  chances  are  somewLat  in  favor  of  the  accused 
Lombard  ornament  already.  But  it  has  more  to  say  for  itself, 
and  more  to  the  purpose  ; namely,  that  its  main  outline  is  one 
not  only  of  natural  crystallisation,  but  among  the  very  first  and 
commonest  of  crystalline  forms,  being  the  primal  condition  of 
the  occurrence  of  the  oxides  of  iron,  copper,  and  tin,  of  the 
sulphurets  of  iron  and  lead,  of  fluor  spar,  &c.  ; and  that  those 
projecting  forms  in  its  surface  represent  the  conditions  of 
structure  which  effect  the  change  into  another  relative  and 
equally  common  crystalline  form,  the  cube.  This  is  quite 
enough.  We  may  rest  assured  it  is  as  good  a combination  of 
such  simple  right  lines  as  can  be  put  together,  and  gracefully 
fitted  for  every  place  in  which  such  lines  are  necessary, 
p Vin.  The  next  ornament  whose  cause  I would  try  is  that 
of  our  Tudor  work,  the  portcullis.  Eeticulation  is  common 
enough  in  natural  form,  and  very  beautiful ; but  it  is  either  of 
the  most  delicate  and  gauzy  texture,  or  of  variously  sized 
meshes  and  undulating  lines.  There  is  no  family  relation  be- 
tween portcullis  and  cobwebs  or  beetles’  wings  ; something 
like  it,  perhaps,  may  be  found  in  some  kinds  of  crocodile  ar- 
mor and  on  the  backs  of  the  Northern  divers,  but  always 
beautifully  varied  in  size  of  mesh.  There  is  a dignity  in  the 


lOG 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


O 


tiling  itself,  if  its  size  were  exhibited,  and  the  shade  given 
through  its  bars  ; but  even  these  merits  are  taken  away  in  the 
Tudor  diminution  of  it,  set  on  a solid  surface.  It  has  not  a 
single  syllable,  I believe,  to  say  in  its  defence.  It  is  another 
monster,  absolutely  and  unmitigatedly  frightful.  All  that 
carving  on  Henry  the  Seventh’s  Chapel  simply  deforms  the 
stones  of  it. 

In  the  same  clause  with  the  portcullis,  we  may  condemn  all 
heraldic  decoration,  so  far  as  beauty  is  its  object.  Its  pride 
and  significance  have  their  proper  place,  fitly  occurring  in 
jirominent  parts  of  the  building,  as  over  its  gates  ; and  allow- 
ably in  places  where  its  legendary  may  be  plainly  read,  as  in 
painted  windows,  bosses  of  ceilings,  &c.  And  sometimes,  of 
course,  the  forms  which  it  presents  may  be  beautiful,  as  of 
animals,  or  simple  symbols  like  the  fleur-de-lis  ; but,  for  the 
most  part,  heraldic  similitudes  and  arrangements  are  so  pro- 
fessedly and  pointedly  unnatural,  that  it  would  be  difficult  to 
invent  anything  uglier ; and  the  use  of  them  as  a repeated 
decoration  will  utterly  destroy  both  the  joower  and  beauty  of 
any  building.  Common  sense  and  courtesy  also  forbid  their 
rej)etition.  It  is  right  to  tell  those  who  enter  your  doors  that 
you  are  such  a one,  and  of  such  a rank  ; but  to  tell  it  to  them 
again  and  again,  wherever  they  turn,  becomes  soon  imperti- 
nence, and  at  last  folly.  Let,  therefore,  the  entire  bearings 
occur  in  few  places,  and  these  not  considered  as  an  ornament, 
but  as  an  inscription  ; and  for  frequent  appliance,  let  any  sin- 
gle and  fair  symbol  be  chosen  out  of  them.  Thus  we  may 
multiply  as  much  as  we  choose  the  French  fleur-de-lis,  or  the 
Florentine  giglio  bianco,  or  the  English  rose  ; but  we  must 
not  multiply  a King’s  arms. 

IX.  It  will  also  follow,  from  these  considerations,  that  if 
any  one  part  of  heraldic  decoration  be  worse  than  another,  it 
is  the  motto  ; since,  of  all  things  unlike  nature,  the  forms  of 
letters  are,  perhaps,  the  most  so.  Even  graphic  tellurium  and 
felspar  look,  at  their  clearest,  anything  but  legible.  All  let- 
ters are,  therefore,  to  be  considered  as  frightful  things,  and 
to  be  endured  only  upon  occasion  ; that  is  to  saj^,  in  places 
where  the  sense  of  the  inscription  is  of  more  importance  than 


THE  LA^JP  OF  BEAUTY. 


107 


external  ornament.  Inscriptions  in  churches,  in  rooms,  and 
on  pictures,  are  often  desirable,  but  they  are  not  to  be  com 
sidered  as  architectural  or  pictorial  ornaments  : they  are,  on 
the  contrary,  obstinate  offences  to  the  eye,  not  to  be  suffered 
except  when  their  intellectual  office  introduces  them.  Place 
them,  therefore,  where  they  wiU  be  read,  and  there  only ; and 
let  them  be  plainly  written,  and  not  turned  upside  domi,  not 
wrong  end  first.  It  is  an  iU  sacrifice  to  beauty  to  make  that 
illegible  whose  only  merit  is  in  its  sense.  Write  it  as  you 
would  speak  it,  simply  ; and  do  not  draw  the  eye  to  it  when 
it  would  fain  rest  elsewhere,  nor  recommend  your  sentence 
by  anything  but  a little  openness  of  place  and  architectural 
silence  about  it.  Write  the  Commandments  on  the  Church 
walls  where  they  may  be  plainly  seen,  but  do  not  put  a dash 
and  a tail  to  every  letter  ; and  remember  that  you  are  an  ar- 
chitect, not  a writing  master. 

X.  Inscriptions  appear  sometimes  to  be  introduced  for  the 
sake  of  the  scroll  on  which  they  are  written  ; and  in  late  and 
modern  painted  glass,  as  well  as  in  architectui’e,  these  scrolls 
are  flourished  and  turned  hither  and  thither  as  if  they  were 
ornamental.  Kibands  occur  frequently  in  arabesques, — in 
some  of  a high  order,  too, — tying  up  flowers,  or  flitting  in  and 
out  among  the  fixed  forms.  Is  there  anything  like  ribands 
in  nature  ? It  might  be  thought  that  grass  and  sea-weed 
afforded  apologetic  types.  They  do  not.  There  is  a wide 
difference  between  their  structure  and  that  of  a riband.  They 
have  a skeleton,  an  anatomy,  a central  rib,  or  fibre,  or  frame- 
work of  some  kind  or  another,  which  has  a beginning  and  an 
end,  a root  and  head,  and  whose  make  and  strength  effects 
every  direction  of  their  motion,  and  every  line  of  their  form. 
The  loosest  weed  that  drifts  and  waves  under  the  heaving  of 
the  sea,  or  hangs  heavily  on  the  brown  and  shppery  shore, 
has  a marked  strength,  structure,  elasticity,  gradation  of  sub- 
stance ; its  extremities  are  more  finely  fibred  than  its  centre, 
its  centre  than  its  root ; every  fork  of  its  ramification  is  meas- 
ured and  proportioned  ; every  wave  of  its  languid  lines  is  love. 
It  has  its  allotted  size,  and  place,  and  function  ; it  is  a spe- 
cific creature.  What  is  there  like  this  in  a riband  ? It  has 


108 


THE  'LAMP  OF  BEA  TJTY. 


no  structure  : it  is  a succession  of  cut  threads  all  alike ; it 
has  no  skeleton,  no  make,  no  form,  no  size,  no  will  of  its  own. 
You  cut  it  and  crush  it  into  what  you  will.  It  has  no  strength, 
no  languor.  It  cannot  fall  into  a single  graceful  form.  It 
cannot  wave,  in  the  true  sense,  but  only  flutter : it  cannot 
bend,  in  the  true  sense,  but  only  turn  and  be  wrinkled.  It 
is  a vile  thing ; it  spoils  all  that  is  near  its  wretched  film  of 
an  existence.  Never  use  it.  Let  the  flowers  come  loose  if 
they  cannot  keep  together  without  being  tied  ; leave  the  sen- 
tence unwritten  if  you  cannot  write  it  on  a tablet  or  book, 
or  plain  roll  of  paper.  I know  what  authority  there  is  against 
me.  I remember  the  scrolls  of  Perugino’s  angels,  and  the 
ribands  of  Eaphael’s  arabesques,  and  of  Ghiberti’s  glorious 
bronze  flowers  : no  matter  ; they  are  every  one  of  them  vices 
and  uglinesses.  Kaphael  usually  felt  this,  and  used  an  honest 
and  rational  tablet,  as  in  the  Madonna  di  Fuligno.  I do  not 
say  there  is  any  type  of  such  tablets  in  nature,  but  all  the 
difference  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  tablet  is  not  considered  as 
an  ornament,  and  the  riband,  or  flying  scroll,  is.  The  tablet, 
as  in  Albert  Durer’s  Adam  and  Eve,  is  introduced  for  the  sake 
of  the  writing,  understood  and  allowed  as  an  ugly  but  neces- 
sary interruption.  The  scroll  is  extended  as  an  ornamental 
form,  which  it  is  not,  nor  ever  can  be. 

XI.  But  it  will  be  said  that  all  this  want  of  organisation 
and  form  might  be  affirmed  of  dra2:»ery  also,  and  that  this 
latter  is  a noble  subject  of  sculpture.  By  no  means.  When 
was  drapery  a subject  of  sculpture  by  itself,  excej^t  in  the 
form  of  a handkerchief  on  urns  in  the  seventeenth  century  and 
in  some  of  the  baser  scenic  Italian  decorations  ? Drapery,  as 
such^_is  always  ignoble  ; it  becomes  a subject  of  interest  only 
by  the  colors  it  bears,  and  the  impresffions  which  it  receives 
from  some  foreign  form  or  force.  All  noble  draperies,  either 
in  painting  or  sculpture  (color  and  texture  being  at  present 
out  of  our  consideration),  have,  so  far  as  they  are  anything 
more  than  necessities,  one  of  two  great  functions ; they  are 
the  exponents  of  motion  and  of  gravitation.  They  are  the 
most  valuable  means  of  expressing  past  as  well  as  present 
motion  in  the  figure,  and  they  are  almost  the  only  means  of 


THE  LAMr  OF  BEAUTY. 


109 


indicating  to  the  eye  the  force  of  gravity  which  resists  such 
motion.  The  Greeks  used  drapery  in  sculpture  for  the  most 
part  as  an  ugly  necessity,  but  availed  themselves  of  it  gladly 
in  all  representation  of  action,  exaggerating  the  arrangements 
of  it  which  express  lightness  in  the  material,  and  follow  gest- 
ure in  the  person.  The  Christian  sculptors,  caring  little  for 
the  body,  or  disliking  it,  and  depending  exclusively  on  the 
countenance,  received  drapery  at  first  contentedly  as  a veil, 
but  soon  perceived  a capacity  of  expression  in  it  which  the 
Greek  had  not  seen  or  had  despised.  The  principal  element 
of  this  expression  was  the  entire  removal  of  agitation  from 
what  was  so  pre-eminently  capable  of  being  agitated.  It  fell 
from  their  human  forms  plumb  down,  sweeping  the  ground 
heavily,  and  concealing  the  feet  ; while  the  Greek  drapery 
w^as  often  blown  away  from  the  thigh.  The  thick  and  coarse 
stuffs  of  the  monkish  dresses,  so  absolutely  opposed  to  the 
thin  and  gauzy  web  of  antique  material,  suggested  simplicity 
of  division  as  w^ell  as  weight  of  fall.  There  was  no  crushing 
nor  subdividing  them.  And  thus  the  drapery  gradually  came 
to  represent  the  spirit  of  repose  as  it  before  had  of  motion, 
repose  saintly  and  severe.  The  wind  had  no  power  upon  the 
garment,  as  the  passion  none  upon  the  soul ; and  the  motion 
of  the  figure  only  bent  into  a softer  line  the  stillness  of  the 
falling  veil,  followed  by  it  like  a slow  cloud  by  drooping  rain  : 
only  in  links  of  lighter  undulation  it  followed  the  dances  of 
the  angels. 

Thus  treated,  drapery  is  indeed  noble  ; but  it  is  as  an  ex- 
ponent of  other  and  higher  things.  As  that  of  gravitation,  it 
has  especial  majesty,  being  literally  the  only  means  we  have 
of  fully  representing  this  mysterious  natural  force  of  earth  (for 
falling  water  is  less  passive  and  less  defined  in  its  lines).  So, 
again,  in  sails  it  is  beautiful  because  it  receives  the  forms  of 
solid  curved  surface,  and  expresses  the  force  of  another  in- 
visible element.  But  drapery  trusted  to  its  own  merits,  and 
given  for  its  own  sake, — drapery  like  that  of  Carlo  Dolci  and 
the  Caraccis, — is  always  base. 

XII.  Closely  connected  with  the  abuse  of  scrolls  and  bands, 
is  that  of  garlands  and  festoons  of  flowers  as  an  architectural 


110 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


decoration,  for  unnatural  arrangements  are  just  as  ugly  as  urn 
natural  forms  ; and  architecture,  in  borrowing  the  objects  of 
nature,  is  bound  to  place  them,  as  far  as  may  be  in  her  power, 
in  such  associations  as  may  befit  and  express  their  origin.  She 
is  not  to  imitate  directly  the  natural  arrangement  ; she  is  not 
to  carve  irregular  stems  of  ivy  up  her  columns  to  account  for 
the  leaves  at  the  top,  but  she  is  nevertheless  to  place  her  most 
exuberant  vegetable  ornament  just  where  Nature  would  have 
placed  it,  and  to  give  some  indication  of  that  radical  and  con- 
nected structure  which  Nature  would  have  given  it.  Thus 
the  Corinthian  capital  is  beautiful,  because  it  expands  under 
the  abacus  just  as  Nature  would  have  exj)anded  it ; and  be- 
cause it  looks  as  if  the  leaves  had  one  root,  though  that  root 
is  unseen.  And  the  flamboyant  leaf  mouldings  are  beautiful, 
because  they  nestle  and  run  up  the  hollows,  and  fill  the  angles, 
and  clasp  the  shafts  which  natural  leaves  would  have  delighted 
to  fill  and  to  clasp.  They  are  no  mere  cast  of  natural  leaves  ; 
they  are  counted,  orderly,  and  architectural : but  they  are 
naturally,  and  therefore  beautifully,  placed. 

XIII.  Now  I do  not  mean  to  say  that  Natoe  never  uses 
festoons  : she  loves  them,  and  uses  them  lavishly  ; and  though 
she  does  so  only  in  those  places  of  excessive  luxuriance  wherein 
it  seems  to  me  that  architectural  types  should  seldom  be  sought, 
yet  a falling  tendril  or  pendent  bough  might,  if  managed  with 
freedom  and  grace,  be  w^ell  introduced  into  luxuriant  dec- 
oration (or  if  not,  it  is  not  their  want  of  beauty,  but  of  archi- 
tectural fitness,  which  incapacitates  them  for  such  uses).  But 
what  resemblance  to  such  example  can  we  trace  in  a mass  of 
all  manner  of  fruit  and  flowers,  tied  heavily  into  a long  bunch, 
thickest  in  the  middle,  and  pinned  up  by  both  ends  against  a 
dead  wall  ? For  it  is  strange  that  the  wildest  and  most  fanci- 
ful of  the  builders  of  truly  luxuriant  architecture  never  ven- 
tured, so  far  as  I know,  even  a pendent  tendril ; while  the 
severest  masters  of  the  revived  Greek  permitted  this  extraor- 
dinary piece  of  luscious  ugliness  to  be  fastened  in  the  middle 
of  their  blank  surfaces.  So  surely  as  this  arrangement  is 
adopted,  the  whole  value  of  the  flower  work  is  lost.  Who 
among  the  crowds  that  gaze  upon  the  building  ever  pause  to 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


Ill 


admire  the  flower  work  of  St.  Paul’s  ? It  is  as  careful  and  as 
rich  as  it  can  he,  yet  it  adds  no  dehghtfulness  to  the  edifice. 
It  is  no  part  of  it.  It  is  an  ugly  excrescence.  We  always  con- 
ceive the  building  without  it,  and  should  be  happier  if  our 
conception  were  not  disturbed  by  its  presence.  It  makes  the 
rest  of  the  architecture  look  poverty-stricken,  instead  of  sub- 
lime ; and  j^et  it  is  never  enjoyed  itself.  Had  it  been  put, 
where  it  ought,  into  the  capitals,  it  would  have  been  beheld 
with  never-ceasing  delight.  I do  not  mean  that  it  could  have 
been  so  in  the  present  building,  for  such  kind  of  architecture 
has  no  business  with  rich  ornament  in  any  place  ; but  that  if 
those  groups  of  flowers  had  been  put  into  natural  places  in  an 
edifice  of  another  style,  their  value  would  have  been  felt  as  viv- 
idly as  now  their  uselessness.  What  applies  to  festoons  is  still 
more  sternly  true  of  garlands.  A garland  is  meant  to  be  seen 
upon  a head.  There  it  is  beautiful,  because  we  suppose  it 
new'ly  gathered  and  joyfully  worn.  But  it  is  not  meant  to  bo 
hung  upon  a wall.  If  you  want  a circular  ornament,  put  a 
flat  circle  of  colored  marble,  as  in  the  Casa  Doria  and  other 
such  palaces  at  Venice  ; or  put  a star,  or  a medallion,  or  if 
you  want  a ring,  put  a solid  one,  but  do  not  carve  the  images 
of  garlands,  looking  as  if  they  had  been  used  in  the  last  pro- 
cession, and  been  hung  up  to  dry,  and  serve  next  time  with- 
ered. Why  not  also  carve  pegs,  and  hats  uj)on  them  ? 

XIV.  One  of  the  worst  enemies  of  modern  Gothic  architect- 
ure, though  seemingly  an  unimportant  feature,  is  an  excres- 
cence, as  offensive  by  its  poverty  as  the  garland  by  its  profu- 
sion, the  dripstone  in  the  shape  of  the  handle  of,Ji-cliest  of 
drawers,  which  is  used  over  the  _^quare^eaded  windows  of 
what  we  call  Elizabethan  buildings.  In  the  last  Chapter, 
it  will  be  remembered  that  the  square  form  was  shown  to  be 
that  of  pre-eminent  Power,  and  to  be  properly  adapted  and 
limited  to  the  exhibition  of  space  or  surface.  Hence,  when 
the  window  is  to  be  an  exponent  of  power,  as  for  instance  in 
those  by  M.  Angelo  in  the  lower  stoiy  of  the  Palazzo  Bicardi 
at  Florence,  the  square  head  is  the  most  noble  form  they  can 
assume  ; but  then  either  their  space  must  be  unbroken,  and 
their  associated  mouldings  the  most  severe,  or  else  the  square 


113 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


must  be  used  as  a fmial  outline,  and  is  chiefly  to  be  associated 
^vitll  forms  of  tracery,  in  which  the  relative  form  of  power,  the 
circle,  is  predominant,  as  in  Venetian,  and  riorentine,  and 
Pisan  Gothic.  But  if  you  break  upon  your  terminal  square, 

; or  if  you  cut  its  lines  ofl’  at  the  top  and  turn  them  outwards, 
you  have  lost  its  unity  and  space.  It  is  an  including  form  no 
longer,  but  an  added,  isolated  line,  and  the  ugliest  possible. 
Look  abroad  into  the  landscape  and  see  if  you  can  discover 
any  one  so  bent  and  fragmentary  as  that  of  this  strange  wind- 
lass-looking dripstone.  You  cannot.  It  is  a monster.  It 
unites  every  element  of  ugliness,  its  line  is  harshly  broken  in 
itself,  and  unconnected  with  every  other  ; it  has  no  harmony 
either  with  structure  or  decoration,  it  has  no  architectural  sup- 
port, it  looks  glued  to  the  wall,  and  the  only  pleasant  property 
it  has,  is  the  appearance  of  some  likelihood  of  its  dropping  off. 

I might  proceed,  but  the  task  is  a weary  one,  and  I think  I 
have  named  those  false  forms  of  decoration  wdiich  are  most 
dangerous  in  our  modern  architecture  as  being  legal  and  ac- 
cepted. The  barbarisms  of  individual  fancy  are  as  countless 
as  they  are  contemptible ; they  neither  admit  attack  nor  are 
worth  it ; but  these  above  named  are  countenanced,  some  by 
the  practice  of  antiquity,  all  by  high  authority  : they  have  de- 
pressed the  proudest,  and  contaminated  the  purest  schools, 
and  are  so  established  in  recent  practice  that  I write  rather 
for  the  barren  satisfaction  of  bearing  witness  against  them, 
than  with  hope  of  inducing  any  serious  convictions  to  their 
jirejudice. 

XV.  Thus  far  of  what  is  not  ornament.  What  ornament  is, 
will  without  difficulty  be  determined  by  the  application  of  the 
same  test.  It  must  consist  of  such  studious  arrangements  of 
form  as  are  imitative  or  suggestive  of  those  which  are  com- 
monest among  natural  existences,  that  being  of  course  the 
noblest  ornament  which  represents  the  highest  orders  of  ex- 
istence. Imitated  flowers  are  nobler  than  imitated  stones, 
/imitated  animals,  than  flowers ; imitated  human  fonn  of  all 
'animal  forms  the  noblest.  But  aU  are  combined  in  the 
richest  ornamental  work  ; and  the  rock,  the  fountain,  the 
'flowing  river  with  its  pebbled  bed,  the  sea,  the  clouds  of 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


113 


Heaven,  the  herb  of  the  field,  the  fruit-tree  bearing  fruit,  the 
creeping  thing,  the  bird,  the  beast,  the  man,  and  the  angel, 
mingle  their  fair  forms  on  the  bronze  of  Ghiberti. 

^ Every  thing  being  then  ornamental  that  is  imitative^  I 
would  ask  the  reader’s  attention  to  a few  general  considera- 
iions,  all  that  can  here  be  offered  relating  to  so  vast  a subject ; 
which,  for  convenience  sake,  may  be  classed  under  the  three 
heads  of  inquiry  : — What  is  the  right  place  for  architectural  T 
ornameni^^?  What  is  the  peculiar  treatment  of  ornament 
which  renders  it  architectural  ? and  what  is  the  right  use  of 
; color  as  associated  with  architectural  imitative  form  ? 

XVI.  What  is  the  place  of  ornament  ? Cqnsidm'  first  that 
^ 'b/  the  characters  of _ natural  objects  which  the  architect  can 

represent  are  few  and  abstract.  The  greater  part  of  those 
delights  by  which  Nature  recommends  herself  to  man  at  all 
times,  cannot  be  conveyed  by  him  into  his  imitative  work. 

He  cannot  make  his  grass  green  and  cool  and  good  to  rest 
upon,  which  in  nature  is  its  chief  use  to  man  ; nor  can  he 
make  his  flowers  tender  and  full  of  color  and  of  scent,  which 
in  nature  are  their  chief  powers  of  giving  joy.  Those  quali- 
ties which  alone  he  can  secure  are  certain  severe  characters 
of  form,  such  as  men  only  see  in  nature  on  deliberate  exami- 
nation, and  by  the  full  and  set  appliance  of  sight  and 
thought : a man  must  lie  down  on  the  bank  of  grass  on  his 
breast  and  set  himself  to  watch  and  penetrate  the  intertwin- 
ing of  it,  before  he  finds  that  which  is  good  to  be  gathered  by 
^the  architect.  So  then  while  Nature  is  at  all  times  pleasant  to 
us,  and  while  the  sight  and  sense  of  her  work  may  mingio 
^ ^ happily  with  all  our  thoughts,  and  labors,  and  times  of  exist- 
y ence,  that  image  of  her  which  the  architect  carries  away 
represents  what  we  can  only  perceive  in  her  by  direct  in- 
tellectual exertion,  and  demands  from  us,  wherever  it  appears, 
an  intellectual  exertion  of  a similar  kind  in  order  to  under- 
^ stand  it  and  feel  it.  It  is  the  written  or  sealed  impression  of 
^ a thing  sought  out,  it  is  the  shaped  result  of  inquiry  and 
bodily  expression  of  thought. 

XVII.  Now  let  us  consider  for  an  instant  what  would  be 

the  effect  of  continually  repeating  an  expression  of  a beautiful 
8 


114 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


thought  to  any  other  of  the  senses  at  times  when  the  mind 
could  not  address  that  sense  to  the  understanding  of  it. 
Suppose  that  in  time  of  serious  occupation,  of  stern  business, 
a companion  should  rejoeat  in  our  ears  continually  some 
favorite  passage  of  poetry,  over  and  over  again  all  day  long. 
We  should  not  only  soon  bo  utterty  sick  and  weary  of  the 
sound  of  it,  but  that  sound  would  at  the  end  of  the  day  have 
so  sunk  into  the  habit  of  the  ear  that  the  entire  meaning  of 
the  passage  would  l)e  dead  to  us,  and  it  would  ever  thence- 
forward require  some  effort  to  fix  and  recover  it.  The  music 
of  it  would  not  meanwhile  have  aided  the  business  in  hand, 
while  its  own  delightfulness  would  thenceforward  be  in  a 
measure  destroyed.  It  is  the  same  with  every  other  form  of 
definite  thought.  If  you  violently  present  its  expression  to 
the  senses,  at  times  when  the  mind  is  otherwise  engaged,  that 
expression  will  be  ineffective  at  the  time,  and  wdll  have  its 
sharpness  and  clearness  destro^md  forever.  Much  more  if 
you  present  it  to  the  mind  at  times  when  it  is  painfully 
affected  or  disturbed,  or  if  you  associate  the  expression  of 
pleasant  thought  with  incongruous  circumstances,  you  wall 
affect  that  exjmession  thenceforwaixl  with  a painful  color  for 
ever. 

XVIII.  Apply  this  to  expressions  of  thought  received  by 
the  eye.  Remember  that  the  eye  is  at  your  mercy  more  than 
the  ear.  ‘‘  The  eye  it  cannot  choose  but  see.”  Its  nerve  is 
not  so  easily  numbed  as  that  of  the  ear,  and  it  is  often  busied 
in  tracing  and  watching  forms  wdien  the  ear  is  at  rest.  Now 
if  you  present  lovely  forms  to  it  when  it  cannot  call  the  mind 
to  help  it  in  its  work,  and  among  objects  of  \adgar  use  and 
iinhaj^py  position,  you  will  neither  please  the  eye  nor  elevate 
the  vulgar  object.  But  you  wdll  fill  and  weary  the  eye  with 
the  beautiful  form,  and  you  will  infect  that  form  itself  with 
the  vulgarity  of  the  thing  to  which  you  have  violently  attached 
it.  It  wall  never  be  of  much  use  to  you  any  more  ; you  have 
killed  or  defiled  it ; its  freshness  and  purity  are  gone.  You 
wall  have  to  pass  it  through  the  fire  of  much  thought  before 
you  wall  cleanse  it,  and  warm  it  with  much  love  before  it  will 
revive. 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY, 


115 


XIX.  Hence  then  a general  law,  of  singular  importance  in 
the  present  day,  a law  of  simple  common  sense, — not  to  deco- 
rate things  belonging  to  purposes  of  active  and  occupied 
life.  Wherever  you  can  rest,  there  decorate ; where  rest  is 
forbidden,  so  is  beauty.  You  must  not  mix  ornament  with 
business,  any  more  than  you  may  mix  play.  Work  first,  and 
then  rest.  Work  first  and  then  gaze,  but  do  not  use  golden 
ploughshares,  nor  bind  ledgers  in  enamel.  Do  not  thrash 
with  sculptured  flails : nor  put  bas-reliefs  on  millstones. 
What ! it  will  be  asked,  are  we  in  the  habit  of  doing  so  ? 
Even  so  ; always  and  everywhere.  The  most  familiar  posi- 
tion of  Greek  mouldings  is  in  these  days  on  shop  fronts. 
There  is  not  a tradesman’s  sign  nor  shelf  nor  counter  in  all 
the  streets  of  all  our  cities,  which  has  not  upon  it  ornaments 
which  were  invented  to  adorn  temples  and  beautify  kings’ 
palaces.  There  is  not  the  smallest  advantage  in  them  where 
they  are.  Absolutely  valueless — uttei’ly  without  the  power 
of  giving  pleasure,  they  only  satiate  the  eye,  and  vulgarise 
their  own  forms.  Many  of  these  are  in  themselves  thor- 
oughly good  copies  of  fine  things,  which  things  themselves 
we  shall  never,  in  consequence,  enjoy  any  more.  Many  a 
pretty  beading  and  graceful  bracket  there  is  in  wood  or 
stucco  above  our  grocers’  and  cheese-mongers’  and  hosiers’ 
shops  : how  it  is  that  the  tradesmen  cannot  understand  that 
custom  is  to  be  had  only  by  selling  good  tea  and  cheese  and 
cloth,  and  that  people  come  to  them  for  their  honesty,  and 
Jheirjr^diness,  and  their  right  wares,  and  not  because  they 
have  Greek  cornices  over  their  windows,  or  their  names  in 
large  gilt  letters  on  their  house  fronts?  how  pleasurable  it 
would  be  to  have  the  power  of  going  through  the  streets  of 
London,  pulling  down  those  brackets  and  friezes  and  large’ 
names,  restoring  to  the  tradesmen  the  cajfital  they  had  spent 
in  architecture,  and  putting  them  on  honest  and  equal  terms, 
each  with  his  name  in  black  letters  over  his  door,  not  shouted 
down  the  street  from  the  upper  stories,  and  each  with  a plain 
wooden  shop  casement,  with  small  panes  in  it  that  peo- 
ple would  not  think  of  breaking  in  order  to  be  sent  to 
prison  ! How  much  better  for  them  would  it  be — how  much 


116 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


happier,  how  much  wiser,  to  put  their  trust  upon  their  own 
truth  and  industry,  and  not  on  the  idiocy  of  their  customers. 
It  is  curious,  and  it  says  little  for  our  national  probity  on 
the  one  hand,  or  prudence  on  the  other,  to  see  the  whole  sys- 
tem of  our  street  decoration  based  on  the  idea  that  people 
must  be  baited  to  a shop  as  moths  are  to  a candle. 

XX.  But  it  will  be  said  that  much  of  the  best  wooden  deco- 
ration of  the  middle  ages  was  in  shop  fronts.  No  ; it  was  in 
house  fronts,  of  which  the  shop  was  a part,  and  received  its 
natural  and  consistent  portion  of  the  ornament.  In  those 
days  men  lived,  and  intended  to  live  hy  their  shops,  and  over 
them,  all  their  days.  They  w’ere  contented  with  them  and 
happy  in  them : they  were  their  2:)alaces  and  castles.  They 
gave  them  therefore  such  decoration  as  made  themselves 
hajDj^y  in  their  own  habitation,  and  they  gave  it  for  their  own 
sake.  The  uj^per  stories  were  always  the  richest,  and  the 
shop  was  decorated  chiefly  about  the  door,  which  belonged  to 
the  house  more  than  to  it.  And  when  our  tradesmen  settle 
to  their  shops  in  the  same  way,  and  form  no  jdans  resj)ecting 
future  villa  architecture,  let  their  whole  houses  be  decorated, 
and  their  shoj^s  too,  but  with  a national  and  domestic  decora- 
tion (I  shall  S]3eak  more  of  this  point  in  the  sixth  chaj)ter). 
However,  our  cities  are  for  the  most  part  too  large  to  admit 
of  contented  dwelling  in  them  throughout  life  ; and  I do  not 
say  there  is  harm  in  our  23resent  system  of  separating  the 
slioj^  from  the  dwelling-house  ; only  where  they  are  so  sep- 
arated, let  us  remember  that  the  only  reason  for  shop  deco- 
ration is  removed,  and  see  that  the  decoration  be  removed 
also. 

XXI.  Another  of  the  strange  and  evil  tendencies  of  the 
present  day  is  to  the  decoration  of  the  railroad  station.  Now, 
if  there  be  any  j^lace  in  the  world  in  which  people  are  de- 
prived of  that  j)ortion  of  temjper  and  discretion  which  are 
necessary  to  the  contem^^lation  of  beauty,  it  is  there.  It  is 
the  very  temj^le  of  discomfort,  and  the  only  charity  that  the 
builder  can  extend  to  us  is  to  show  us,  plainly  as  may  be,  how 
soonest  to  escape  from  it.  The  whole  system  of  railroad  trav^ 
elling  is  addressed  to  people  who,  being  in  a huiTy,  are  there- 


fore,  for  the  time  being,  miserable.  No  one  would  travel  in 
that  manner  who  could  help  it — who  had  time  to  go  leisurely 
'h  ' f + <^^'er  hills  and  between  hedges,  instead  of  through  tunnels  and 


I ' between  banks  : at  least  those  who  would,  have  no  sense  of  I 

I beauty  so  acute  as  that  we  need  consult  it  at  the  station.  The  i 

railroad  is  in  all  its  relations  a matter  of  earnest  business,  to 
i be  got  through  as  soon  as  possible.  It  transmutes  a man 

frorn  a traveller  into  a living  parcel.  ForThe^ime  he  has 
i , ^ parted  mth  the  nobler  characteristics  of  his  humanity  for  the  ' 

i ; sake  of  a planetary  power  of  locomotion.  Do  not  ask  him  to 

I*  admire  anything.  You  might  as  well  ask  the  wind.  Carry 

him  safely,  dismiss  him  soon  : he  will  thank  you  for  nothing 
I else.  All  attempts  to  please  him  in  any  other  way  are  mere  , 

i;  mockery,  and  insults  to  the  things  by  which  you  endeavor  to 

do  so.  There  never  was  more  flagrant  nor  impertinent  folly 
than  the  smallest  portion  of  ornament  in  anything  concerned  ' 

i with  raih*oads  or  near  them.  Keep  them  out  of  the  way,  take 

[?  them  through  the  ugliest  country  you  can  find,  confess  them 

I the  miserable  things  they  are,  and  spend  nothing  upon  them 

I but  for  safety  and  speed.  ^Give  large  salaries  to  efficient  ser- 

I vants,  large  prices  to  good  manufacturers,  large  wages  to  able 

workmen  ; let  the  iron  be  tough,  and  the  brickwork  solid, 
and  the  carriages  strong.  The  time  is  perhaps  not  distant 
when  these  first  necessities  may  not  be  easily  met : and  to  in- 
crease expense  in  any  other  direction  is  madness.  Better 
bury  gold  in  the  embankments,  than  put  it  in  ornaments  on 
the  stations.  Will  a single  traveller  be  willing  to  pay  an  in- 
creased fare  on  the  South  Western,  because  the  columns  of 
the  terminus  are  covered  with  patterns  from  Nineveh  ? He 
will  only  care  less  for  the  Ninevite  ivories  in  the  British  Mu- 
seum : or  on  the  North  Western,  because  there  are  old  Encf-  I 

lish-looking  spandrils  to  the  roof  of  the  station  at  Crewe  ? He 
will  only  have  less  pleasure  in  their  prototypes  at  Crewe 
House.  Bailroad  architecture  has  or  would  have  a dignity  i 

of  its  own  if  it  were  only  left  to  its  work.  You  would  not  ; 

put  rings  on  the  fingers  of  a smith  at  his  anvil.  t 

XXH.  It  is  not  however  only  in  these  marked  situations  | 

that  the  abuse  of  which  I speak  takes  jdace.  There  is  hardly. 


118 


TJlIi:  LAMP  OP  UPAUTY. 


at  present,  an  aio^'dication  of  ornamental  work,  which  is  not 
in  some  sort  liable  to  blame  of  the  same  kind.  We  have  a 
bad  habit  of  trying  to  disguise  disagreeable  necessities  l)y 
some  form  of  sudden  decoration,  which  is,  in  all  other  places, 
associated  with  such  necessities.  I will  name  only  one  in« 
stance,  that  to  which  I have  alluded  before — the  roses  which 
conceal  the  ventilators  in  the  flat  roofs  of  our  chapels.  Many 
of  those  roses  are  of  very  beautiful  design,  borrowed  from 
fine  works  : all  their  grace  and  finish  are  invisible  when  they 
are  so  placed,  but  their  general  form  is  afterwards  associated 
with  the  ugly  buildings  in  which  they  constantly  occur  ; and 
all  the  beautiful  roses  of  the  early  French  and  English  Gothic, 
especially  such  elaborate  ones  as  those  of  the  triforium  of 
Coutances,  are  in  consequence  deprived  of  their  pleasurable 
influence  : and  this  without  our  having  accomplished  the 
smallest  good  by  the  use  we  have  made  of  the  dishonored  form. 
Not  a single  person  in  the  congregation  ever  receives  one  ray 
of  pleasure  from  those  roof  roses ; they  are  regarded  with 
mere  indifference,  or  lost  in  the  general  impression  of  harsh 
emptiness. 

XXIII.  Must  not  beauty,  then,  it  will  be  asked,  be  sought  for 
jn  the  forms  which  we  associate  with  our  every-day  life  ? Yes, 
if  you  do  it  consistently,  and  in  places  where  it  can  be  calmly 
seen ; but  not  if  you  use  the  beautiful  form  only  as  a mask 
and  covering  of  the  proper  conditions  and  uses  of  things, 
nor  if  you  thrust  it  into  the  places  set  aj)art  for  toil.  Put  it  in 
the  drawing-room,  not  into  the  workshop  ; put  it  upon  do- 
mestic furniture,  not  upon  tools  of  handicraft.  All  men  have 
sense  of  what  is  right  in  this  manner,  if  they  would  only  use 
and  apply  that  sense  ; every  man  knows  where  and  how 
beauty  gives  him  pleasure,  if  he  would  only  ask  for  it  when  it 
does  so,  and  not  allow  it  to  be  forced  upon  him  when  he  does 
not  want  it.  Ask  any  one  of  the  passengers  over  London 
Bridge  at  this  instant  whether  he  cares  about  the  forms  of  the 
bronze  leaves  on  its  lamps,  and  he  will  tell  you,  No.  Modify 
these  forms  of  leaves  to  a less  scale,  and  put  them  on  his  milk- 
jug  at  l^reakfast,  and  ask  him  whether  he  likes  them,  and  he 
will  tell  you,  Yes.  People  have  no  need  of  teaching  if  they 


THE  LAMP  QF  BEAUTY. 


110 


could  only  think  find  speak  truth,  and  ask  for  what  they  like 
and  want,  and  for  nothing  else  : nor  can  a right  disposition 
of  beauty  be  ever  arrived  at  except  by  this  common  sense, 
anik  allowance  for  the  circumstances  of  the  time  and  place. 
It  does  not  follow,  because  bronze  leafage  is  in  badTiaste”  bh 
the  lamps  of  London^JBridge,  that  it  would  be  so  on  those  of 
the  Ponte^della^Trinita  ; nor,  because  it  would  be  a folly  to 
decorate  the  house  fronts  of  Gracechurch  Street,  that  it  would 
be  equally  so  to  adorn  those  of  some  quiet  provincial  town. 
The  question  of  greatest  external  or  internal  decoration  de- 
pends entirely  on  the  conditions  of  probable  repose.  It  ■was 
a wise  feeling  which  made  the  streets  of  Venice  so  rich  in  ex- 
ternal ornament,  for  there  is  no  couch  of  rest  like  the  gondola. 
So,  again,  there  is  no  subject  of  street  ornament  so  wisety 
chosen  as  the  fountain,  where  it  is  a fountain  of  use. ; for  it  is 
just  there  that  perhaps  the  happiest  pause  takes  place  in  the 
labor  of  the  day,  when  the  pitcher  is  rested  on  the  edge  of  it, 
and  the  breath  of  the  bearer  is  drawn  deeply,  and  the  hair 
swept  from  the  forehead,  and  the  uprightness  of  the  form 
declined  against  the  marble  ledge,  and  the  sound  of  the  kind 
word  or  light  laugh  mixes  with  the  trickle  of  the  falling  water, 
heard  shriller  and  shriller  as  the  pitcher  fills.  What  pause  is 
so  sweet  as  that — so  full  of  the  depth  of  ancient  days,  so  soft- 
ened with  the  calm  of  pastoral  solitude  ? 

XXIV.  n.  Thus  far,  then,  of  the  place  for  beauty.  Wo 
were  next  to  inquire  into  the  characters  which  fitted  it  pecu- 
liarly for  architectural  appliance,  and  into  the  principles  of 
choice  and  of  arrangement  which  best  regulate  the  imitation 
of  natural  forms  in  Avhich  it  consists.  The  full  answering  of 
these  questions  would  be  a treatise  on  the  art  of  design  : I in- 
tend only  to  say  a few  words  respecting  the  two  conditions  of 
that  art  which  are  essentially  architectural, — Proportion  and 
Abstraction.  Neither  of  these  qualities  is  necessary,  to  the 
same  extent,  in  other  fields  of  design.  The  sense  of  proportion 
is,  by  the  landscape  painter,  frequently  sacrificed  to  character 
and  accident ; the  power  of  abstraction  to  that  of  complete 
realisation.  The  flowers  of  his  foreground  must  often  be  un- 
measured in  their  quantity,  loose  in  their  arrangement : what 


120 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


is  calculated,  either  in  cjuantity  or  disposition,  must  be  art» 
fully  concealed.  That  calculation  is  by  the  architect  to  be 
pr.ominently  exhibited.  Ho  the  abstraction  of  few  character- 
istics out  of  inany  is  shown  only  in  the  painter’s  sketch ; in 
his  finished  work  it  is  concealed  or  lost  in  completion.  Archi- 
tecture, on  the  contrary,  delights  in  Abstraction  and  fears  to 
complete  her  forms.  /Proportion  and  Abstraction,  then,  are 
the  two  especiahTnafks  of  architecturardesign  as  distinguished 
j from  all  other.  Sculpture  must  have  them  in  inferior  degrees  ; 
’ leaning,  on  the  one  hand,  to  an  architectural  manner,  when  it 
is  usually  greatest  (becoming,  indeed,  a part  of  Architecture), 
and,  on  the  other,  to  a pictorial  manner,  when  it  is  apt  to  lose 
its  dignity,  and  sink  into  mere  ingenious  carving. 

XXV.  Now,  of  Proportion  so  much  has  been  written,  that 
I believe  the  only  facts  which  are  of  practical  use  have  been 
overwhelmed  and  kept  out  of  sight  by  vain  accumulations  of 
particular  instances  and  estimates.  Proportions  are  as  infinite 
(and  that  in  all  kinds  of  things,  as  severally  in  colors,  lines, 
shades,  lights,  and  forms)  as  possible  airs  in  music  : and  it  is 
just  as  rational  an  attempt  to  teach  a young  architect  how  to 
proportion  truly  and  well  by  calculating  for  him  the  propor- 
tions of  fine  works,  as  it  would  be  to  teach  him  to  compose 
melodies  by  calculating  the  mathematical  relations  of  the  notes 
in  Beethoven’s  Adelaide  or  Mozart’s  Eequiem.  The  man  who 
has  eye  and  intellect  will  invent  beautiful  proportions,  and 
cannot  help  it ; but  he  can  no  more  tell  iis  how  to  do  it  than 
Wordsworth  could  tell  us  how  to  write  a sonnet,  or  than  Scott 
could  have  told  us  how  to  plan  a romance.  But  there  are  one 
or  two  general  laws  which  can  be  told : they  are  of  no  use, 
indeed,  except  as  preventives  of  gross  mistake,  but  they  are  so 
far  worth  telling  and  remembering  ; and  the  more  so  because, 
in  the  discussion  of  the  subtle  laws  of  proportion  (wdiich  will 
never  be  either  numbered  or  known),  architects  are  perpet- 
jially  forgetting  and  transgressing  the  very  simplest  of  its 
necessities. 

XXVI.  Of  which  the  first  is,  that  wherever  Proportion  exists 
I at  all,  one  member  of  the  composition  must  be  either  larger 
'■  than,  or  in  some  way  supreme  over,  the  rest.  There  is  no 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY./ 


121 


pi-oportion  between  equal  things.  Thpy  can  have  symmetry 
only,  and  symmetry  without  proportion  is  not  composition.  It 
is  necessary  to  perfect  beauty,  but  it  is  the  least  necessary  of 
its  elements,  nor  of  course  is  there  any  difficulty  in  obtaining 
it.  Any  succession  of  equal  things  is  agreeable  ; but  to  com- 
pose is  to  arrange  unequal  thmgs,  and  the  first  thing  to  be 
done  in  beginning  a composition  is  to  determine  which  is  to 
be  the  principal  thing.  I believe  that  all  that  has  been 
written  and  taught  about  proportion,  put  together,  is  not  to 
the  architect  worth  the  single  rule,  well  enforced,  “Have  one 
large  thing  and  several  smaller  things,  or  one  principal  thing 
and  several  inferior  things,  and  bind  them  well  together.”'* 
Sometimes  there  may  be  a regular  gradation,  as  between  the 
heights  of  stories  in  good  designs  for  houses ; sometimes  a 
monarch  with  a lowly  train,  as  in  the  spire  with  its  pinnacles  : 
the  varieties  of  arrangement  are  infinite,  but  the  law  is  uni- 
versal— have  one  thing  above  the  rest,  either  by  size,  or  office, 
or  interest.  Don’t  put  the  pinnacles  without  the  spire.  What 
a host  of  ugly  church  towers  have  we  in  England,  with  pinna- 
cles at  the  corners,  and  none  in  the  middle ! How  many, 
buildings  like  King’s  College  Chapel  at  Cambridge,  looking 
like  tables  upside  down,  with  their  four  legs  in  the  air  ! What ! 
it  will  be  said,  have  not  beasts  four  legs  ? Yes,  but  legs  of 
different  shapes,  and  with  a head  between  them.  So  they 
have  a pair  of  ears  : and  perhaps  a pair  of  horns  : but  not  at 
both  ends.  Knock  down  a couple  of  pinnacles  at  either  end 
in  King’s  College  Chapel,  and  you  will  have  a kind  of  propor- 
tion instantly.  So  in  a cathedral  you  may  have  one  tower  in 
the  centre,  and  two  at  the  west  end  ; or  two  at  the  west  end 
only,  though  a worse  arrangement : but  you  must  not  have 
two  at  the  west  and  two  at  the  east  end,  unless  you  have  some 
central  member  to  connect  them  ; and  even  then,  buildings 
are  generally  bad  which  have  large  balancing  features  at  the 
extremities,  and  small  connecting  ones  in  the  centre,  because 
it  is  not  easy  then  to  make  the  centre  dominant.  The  bird  or 
moth  may  indeed  have  wide  wings,  because  the  size  of  the  wing 
does  not  give  supremacy  to  the  wing.  The  head  and  life  are 
the  mighty  things,  and  the  plumes,  however  wide,  are  sub- 


//  > 


122 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


ordinate.  In  fine  west  fronts  with  a i^edirnent  and  two  towers, 
the  centre  is  always  the  principal  mass,  both  in  bulk  and  in- 
terest (as  having  the  main  gateway),  and  the  towers  are  sub- 
ordinated to  it,  as  an  animal’s  horns  are  to  its  head.  The 
moment  the  towers  rise  so  high  as  to  overpower  the  body  and 
centre,  and  become  themselves  the  principal  masses,  they  will 
destroy  the  proportion,  unless  they  are  made  unequal,  and 
one  of  them  the  leading  feature  of  the  cathedral,  as  at  Ant- 
werp and  Strasburg.  But  the  method  is  to  keej)  them 

down  in  due  relation  to  the  centre,  and  to  throw  up  the  pedi- 
ment into  a steep  connecting  mass,  drawing  the  eye  to  it  by 
rich  tracery.  This  is  nobly  done  in  St.  Wulfran  of  Abbeville, 
and  attempted  partly  at  Bouen,  though  that  west  front  is  made 
up  of  so  many  unfinished  and  supervening  designs  that  it  is 
impossible  to  guess  the  real  intention  of  any  one  of  its  builders. 

XXVII.  This  rule  of  supremacy  applies  to  the  smallest  as 
well  as  to  the  leading  features : it  is  interestingly  seen  in  the 
arrangement  of  all  good  mouldings.  I have  given  one,  on  the 
opposite  page,  from  Bouen  cathedral ; that  of  the  tracery  be- 
fore distinguished  as  a type  of  the  noblest  manner  of  Northern 
Gothic  (Chap.  11.  § XXII.).  It  is  a tracery  of  three  orders,  of 
which  the  first  is  divided  into  a leaf  moulding,  fig.  4,  and  h in 
the  section,  and  a plain  roll,  also  seen  in  fig.  4,  c in  the  sec- 
tion ; these  two  divisions  surround  the  entire  window  or  pan- 
elling, and  are  carried  by  two-face  shafts  of  corresponding  sec- 
tions. The  second  and  third  orders  are  plain  rolls  following 
the  line  of  the  tracery  ; four  divisions  of  moulding  in  all : of 
these  four,  the  leaf  moulding  is,  as  seen  in  the  sections,  much 
the  largest ; next  to  it  the  outer  roll ; then,  by  an  exquisite 
alternation,  the  innermost  roll  ie),  in  order  that  it  may  not  be 
lost  in  the  recess  and  the  intermediate  {d),  the  smallest.  Each 
roll  has  its  own  shaft  and  capital ; and  the  two  smaller,  wdiich 
in  effect  upon  the  eye,  owing  to  the  retirement  of  the  inner- 
most, are  nearly  equal,  have  smaller  capitals  than  the  two 
larger,  lifted  a little  to  bring  them  to  the  same  level.  The 
wall  in  the  tref  oiled  lights  is  curved,  as  from  e to /‘in  the  sec- 
tion ; but  in  the  quatrefoil  it  is  flat,  only  thrown  back  to  the 
fuU  depth  of  the  recess  below  so  as  to  get  a sharp  shadow  in- 


THE  LAMP  OP  BEAUTT. 


123 


stead  of  a soft  one,  the  mouldings  falling  back  to  it  in  nearly 
a vertical  curve  behind  the  roll  e.  This  could  not,  however, 
be  managed  with  the  simpler  mouldings  of  the  smaller  qua- 
trefoil  above,  whose  half  section  is  given  from  (j  to  but 
the  architect  was  evidently  fretted  by  the  heavy  look  of  its 
circular  foils  as  opposed  to  the  light  spring  of  the  arches  be- 
low : so  he  threw  its  cusps  obliquely  clear  from  the  wall,  as 
seen  in  fig.  2,  attached  to  it  where  they  meet  the  circle,  but 
Avith  their  finials  pushed  out  from  the  natural  level  {li,  in  the 
section)  to  that  of  the  first  order  (gj  and  supported  by  stone 
props  behind,  as  seen  in  the  profile  fig.  2,  which  I got  from 
the  correspondent  panel  on  the  buttress  face  (fig.  1 being  on 
its  side),  and  of  which  the  lower  cusps,  being  broken  away, 
show  the  remnant  of  one  of  their  props  projecting  from  the 
wall.  The  oblique  curve  thus  obtained  in  the  profile  is  of 
singular  grace.  Take  it  all  in  all,  I have  never  met  with  a 
more  exquisite  piece  of  varied,  yet  severe,  proportioned  and 
general  arrangement  (though  all  the  Avindows  of  the  period 
are  fine,  and  especially  delightful  in  the  subordinate  propor- 
tioning of  the  smaller  capitals  to  the  smaller  shafts).  The 
only  fault  it  has  is  the  inevitable  misarrangement  of  the  cen- 
tral shafts ; for  the  enlargement  of  the  inner  roll,  though 
beautiful  in  the  group  of  four  divisions  at  the  side,  causes, 
in  the  triple  central  shaft,  the  very  aAvkwardness  of  heaAy 
lateral  members  Avhich  has  just  been  in  most  instances  con- 
demned. In  the  AvindoAvs  of  the  choir,  and  in  most  of  the 
period,  this  difficulty  is  avoided  by  making  the  fourth  order  a 
fiUet  which  only  follows  the  foliation,  while  the  three  outer- 
most are  nearly  in  arithmetical  progression  of  size,  and  the  cen- 
tral triple  shaft  has  of  com'se  the  largest  roll  in  front.  The 
moulding  of  the  Palazzo  Foscari  (Plate  YIII,  and  Plate  IV. 
fig.  8)  is,  for  so  simple  a group,  the  grandest  in  effect  I have 
eA^en  seen  : it  is  composed  of  a large  roll  with  tAVO  subordi- 
nates. 

XXVni.  It  is  of  course  impossible  to  enter  into  details  of 
instances  belonging  to  so  intricate  division  of  our  subject,  in 
the  compass  of  a general  essay.  I can  but  rapidly  name  the 
chief  conditions  of  right.  Another  of  these  is  the  connection 


124 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


of  Symmetry  with  Ijorizoiital,  and  of  Proportion  with  vertical^ 
division.  Evidently  there  is  in  symmetry  a sense~iiot  merely 
of  e(piality,  but  of  balance  : now  a thing  cannot  be  balanced 
by  another  on  the  top  of  it,  though  it  may  by  one  at  the  side 
of  it.  Hence,  while  it  is  not  only  allowable,  but  often  neces- 
sary, to  divide  buildings,  or  parts  of  them,  horizontally  into 
halves,  thirds,  or  other  equal  parts,  all  vertical  divisions  of 
this  kind  are  utterly  wrong ; worst  into  half,  next  worst  in 
the  regular  numbers  which  more  betray  the  equalit}^  I should 
have  thought  this  almost  the  first  principle  of  proportion 
which  a young  architect  was  taught : and  yet  I remember  an 
important  building,  recently  erected  in  England,  in  which 
the  columns  are  cut  in  half  by  the  projecting  architraves  of 
the  central  windows ; and  it  is  quite  usual  to  see  the  spires 
of  modern  Gothic  churches  divided  by  a band  of  ornament 
half  way  up.  In  all  fine  spires  there  are  two  bands  and  three 
parts,  as  at  Salisbury.  The  ornamented  portion  of  the  tower 
is  there  cut  in  half,  and  allow^ably,  because  the  spire  forms  the 
third  mass  to  which  the  other  two  are  subordinate  : two  sto- 
ries are  also  equal  in  Giotto’s  campanile,  but  dominant  over 
smaller  divisions  below,  and  subordinated  to  the  noble  third 
above.  Even  this  arrangement  is  difficult  to  treat ; and  it  is 
usually  safer  to  increase  or  diminish  the  height  of  the  divis- 
ions regularly  as  they  rise,  as  in  the  Doge’s  Palace,  wEose 
three  divisions  are  in  a bold  geometrical  progression  : or,  in 
towers,  to  get  an  alternate  proportion  between  the  body,  the 
belfry,  and  the  crown,  as  in  the  campanile  of  St.  Mark’s. 
But,  at  all  events,  get  rid  of  equality ; leave  -that  to  children 
and  their  card  houses : the  laws  of  nature  and  the  reason  of 
man  are  alike  against  it,  in  arts,  as  in  politics.  There  is  but 
one  thoroughly  ugly  tower  in  Italy  that  I know  of,  and  that 
is  so  because  it  is  divided  into  vertical  equal  parts  : the  tow'er 
of  Pisa.'^ 

XXIX.  One  more  principle  of  Proportion  I have  to  name, 
equally  simple,  equally  neglected.  Proportion  is  between 
tlmee^terms _at  lea^t.  Hence,  as  the  pinnacles  are  not  enough 
without  the  spire,  so  neither  the  spire  without  the  pinnacles.  All 
men  feel  this  and  usually  ex23ress  their  feeling  by  saying  that 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


125 


the  pinnacles  conceal  the  junction  of  the  spire  and  tower. 
This  is  one  reason  ; but  a more  influential  one  is,  that  the 
pinnacles  furnish  the  third  term  to  the  spire  and  tower.  So 
that  it  is  not  enough,  in  order  to  secure  proportion,  to  divide 
a building'  unequally  ; it  must  be  divided  into  at  least  three 
parts ; it  may  be  into  more  (and  in  details  with  advantage), 
but  on  a large  scale  I find  three  is  about  the  best  numiber  of 
parts  in  elevation,  and  five  in  horizontal  extent,  with  freedom 
of  increase  to  five  in  the  one  case  and  seven  in  the  other ; but 
not  to  more  without  confusion  (in  architecture,  that  is  to  say  ; 
for  in  organic  structure  the  numbers  cannot  be  limited).  I 
purpose,  in  the  course  of  works  which  are  in  preparation,  to 
give  copious  illustrations  of  this  subject,  but  I will  take  at 
present  only  one  instance  of  vertical  proportion,  from  the 
flower  stem  of  the  common  water  plantain,  Alisma  Plantago. 
Fig.  5,  Plate  XII.  is  a reduced  profile  of  one  side  of  a plant 
gathered  at  random ; it  is  seen  to  have  five  masts,  of  which, 
however,  the  uppermost  is  a mere  shoot,  and  we  can  consider 
only  their  relations  up  to  the  fourth.  Their  lengths  are 
measured  on  the  line  A B,  which  is  the  actual  length  of  the 
lowest  mass  a 6,  A C — hc,KY>—Gd,  and  A c.  If  the 
reader  will  take  the  trouble  to  measure  these  lengths  and 
compare  them,  he  will  find  that,  within  half  a line,  the  upper- 
most A of  A B,  A I)=|  of  A C,  and  A of  A B ; a 
most  subtle  diminishing  proportion.  From  each  of  the  joints 
spring  three  major  and  three  minor  branches,  each  between 
each ; but  the  major  branches,  at  any  joint,  are  placed  over 
the  minor  branches  at  the  joint  below,  by  the  curious  arrange- 
ment of  the  joint  itself — the  stem  is  bluntly  triangular  ; fig. 
6 shows  the  section  of  any  joint.  The  outer  darkened  tri- 
angle is  the  section  of  the  lower  stem  ; the  inner,  left  light, 
of  the  upper  stem  ; and  the  three  main  branches  spring  from 
the  ledges  left  by  the  recession.  Thus  the  stems  diminish  in 
diameter  just  as  they  diminish  in  height.  The  main  branches 
(falsely  placed  in  the  profile  over  each  other  to  show  their 
relations)  have  respectively  seven,  six,  five,  four,  and  three 
arm-Dones,  like  the  masts  of  the  stem  ; these  divisions  being 
proportioned  in  the  same  subtle  manner.  From  the  joints  of 


120 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


these,  it  seems  to  l)e  the  iilan  of  the  plant  that  three  majoi 
and  three  minor  branches  should  again  spring,  hearing  the 
flowers : but,  in  these  infinitely  complicated  members,  vege- 
tative nature  admits  much  variety  ; in  the  plant  from  which 
these  measures  were  taken  the  full  complement  appeared  only 
at  one  of  the  secondary  joints. 

Tlie  leaf  of  this  plant  has  five  ribs  on  each  side,  as  its  flower 
generally  five  masts,  arranged  with  the  most  exquisite  grace 
of  curve  ; but  of  lateral  proportion  I shall  rather  take  illustra- 
tions from  architecture  : the  reader  will  find  several  in  the  ac- 
counts of  the  Duomo  at  Pisa  and  St.  Mark’s  at  Venice,  in 
Chap.  V.  §§  XIV. — XVI.  I give  these  arrangements  merely  as 
illustrations,  not  as  precedents : all  beautiful  ^proportions  are 
unique,  they  are  not  general  formulie. 

XXX.  The  other  condition  of  architectural  treatment  which 
we  proposed  to  notice  was  the  abstraction  of  imitated  form. 
But  there  is  a peculiar  difficulty  in  touching  within  these  nar- 
row limits  on  such  a subject  as  this,  because  the  abstraction 
of  which  we  find  examples  in  existing  art,  is  partly  involun- 
tary ; and  it  is  a matter  of  much  nicety  to  determine  where  it 
begins  to  be  purposed.  In  the  progress  of  national  as  well 
as^  of  individual  mind,  the  first  attempts  at  imitation  are  al- 
wa^^s  abstract  and  incomplete.  Greater  completion  marks 
the  progress  of  art,  absolute  completion  usually  its  decline ; 
whence  absolute  completion  of  imitative  form  is  often  sup- 
];)Osed  to  be  in  itself  wrong.  But  it  is  not  wrong  always,  only 
dangerous.  Let  us  endeavor  briefly  to  ascertain  wherein  its 
danger  consists,  and  wherein  its  dignity. 

- XXXI.  I have  said  that  all  art  is  abstract  in  its  beginnings  ; 

■ that  is  to  say,  it  expresses  only  a small  number  of  the  qualities 
;;.^of  the  thing  represented.  Curved  and  complex  lines  are  repre- 
sented by  straight  and  simple  ones  ; interior  markings  of  forms 
are  few,  and  much  is  symbolical  and  conventional.  There  is  a 
resembance  between  the  work  of  a great  nation,  in  this  phase, 
and  the  work  of  childhood  and  ignorance,  which,  in  the  mind 
of  a careless  observer,  might  attach  something  like  ridicule  to  it 
Tlie  form  of  a tree  on  the  Xinevite  sculptui'es  is  much  like  that 
which,  some  twenty  years  ago,  was  familiar  upon  samplers ; and 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


127 


the  types  of  the  face  and  figure  in  early  Italian  art  are  suscepti- 
ble of  easy  caricature.  On  the  signs  which  separate  the  infancy 
of  magnificent  manhood  from  every  other,  I do  not  pause  to 
insist  (they  consist  entirely  in  the  choice  of  the  symbol  and  of 
the  features  abstracted) ; but  I pass  to  the  next  stage  of  art,  a 
condition  of  strength  in  which  the  abstraction  which  was  begun 
in  incapability  is  continued  in  free  will.  This  is  the  case,  how- 
ever, in  pure  sculpture  and  painting,  as  well  as  in  architecture  ; 
and  we  have  nothing  to  do  but  with  that  gTeater  severity  of 
manner  which  fits  either  to  be  associated  with  the  more  realist 
art.  I believe  it  properly  consists  only  in  a due  expression  of 
their  subordination,  an  expression  varying  according  to  their 
place  and  office.  The  question  is  first  to  be  clearly  determined 
whether  the  architecture  is  a frame  for  the  sculpture,  or  the 
sculpture  an  ornament  of  the  architecture.  If  the  latter,  then  L'2 
the  first  office  of  that  sculpture  is  not  to  represent  the  things  it 
imitates,  but  to  gather  out  of  them  those  arrangements  of 
form  which  shall  be  ]oleasing  to  the  eye  in  their  intended  places. 

So  soon  as  agreeable  lines  and  points  of  shade  have  been  added 
to  the  mouldings  which  were  meagre,  or  to  the  lights  which 
were  unrelieved,  the  architectural  work  of  the  imitation  is  ac- 
complished ; and  how  far  it  shall  be  wrought  towards  complete- 
ness or  not,  will  depend  upon  its  jDlace,  and  upon  other  various 
ch’cumstances.  If,  in  its  particular  use  or  position,  it  is  sym- 
metrically arranged,  there  is,  of  course,  an  instant  indication  of 
architectural  subjection.  But  symmetry  is  not  abstraction. 
Leaves  may  be  carved  in  the  most  regular  order,  and  yet  be 
meanly  imitative  ; or,  on  the  other  hand,  they  may  be  thrown 
wild  and  loose,  and  yet  be  highly  architectural  in  their  separate 
treatment.  Nothing  can  be  less  symmetrical  than  the  group  ot 
leaves  which  join  the  two  columns  in  Plate  XIII.  ; yet,  since 
nothing  of  the  leaf  character  is  given  but  what  is  necessary  ’ 
for  the  bare  suggestion  of  its  image  and  the  attainment  of  the 
lines  desired,  their  treatment  is  highly  abstract.  It  shows  that 
the  workman  only  wanted  so  much  of  the  leaf  as  he  supposed 
good  for  his  architecture,  and  would  allow  no  more  ; and  how 
much  is  to  be  supposed  good,  depends,  as  I have  said,  much 
xnore  on  place  and  circumstance  than  on  general  laws.  I know 


128 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUT Y. 


that  this  is  not  usually  thought,  and  that  many  good  architects 
would  insist  on  abstraction  in  all  cases : the  question  is  so  wide 
and  so  difficult  that  I express  my  opinion  upon  it  most  diffi- 
dently ; but  my  own  feeling  is,  that  a purely  abstract  manner, 
like  that  of  our  earliest  English  work,  does  not  afford  room  for 
the  perfection  of  beautiful  form,  and  that  its  severity  is  weari- 
some after  the  eye  has  been  long  accustomed  to  it.  I have  not 
done  justice  to  the  Salisbury  dog-tooth  moulding,  of  which  the 
effect  is  sketched  in  fig.  5,  Plate  X.,  but  I have  done  more  jus- 
tice to  it  nevertheless  than  to  the  beautiful  French  one  above 
it ; and  I do  not  think  that  any  candid  reader  would  deny  that, 
piquant  and  spirited  as  is  that  from  Salisbury,  the  Rouen  mould- 
ing is,  in  every  respect,  nobler.  It  will  be  observed  that  its 
symmetry  is  more  complioated,  the  leafage  being  divided  into 
double  groups  of  two  lobes  each,  each  lobe  of  different  struct- 
ure. With  exquisite  feeling,  one  of  these  double  groups  is 
alternately  omitted  on  the  other  side  of  the  moulding  (not  seen 
in  the  Plate,  but  occupying  the  cavetto  of  the  section),  thus 
giving  a playful  lightness  to  the  whole  ; and  if  the  reader  will 
allow  for  a beauty  in  the  flow  of  the  emwed  outlines  (especially 
on  the  angle),  of  which  he  cannot  in  the  least  judge  from  my 
rude  drawing,  he  will  not,  I think,  expect  easily  to  find  a nobler 
instance  of  decoration  adapted  to  the  severest  mouldings. 

Now  it  will  be  observed,  that  there  is  in  its  treatment  a 
high  degree  of  abstraction,  though  not  so  conventional  as  that 
of  Salisbm'y  : that  is  to  say,  the  leaves  have  little  more  than 
their  flow  and  outline  represented  ; they  are  hardly  midercut, 
but  their  edges  are  comiected  by  a gentle  and  most  studied 
curve  with  the  stone  behind  ; they  have  no  serrations,  no 
veinings,  no  rib  or  stalk  on  the  angle,  only  an  incision  grace- 
fully made  towards  their  extremities,  indicative  of  the  central 
rib  and  depression.  The  whole  style  of  the  abstraction  shows 
that  the  architect  could,  if  he  had  chosen,  have  carried  the 
imitation  much  farther,  but  stayed  at  this  point  of  his  own 
free  will  ; and  what  he  has  done  is  also  so  perfect  in  its  kind, 
that  I feel  disposed  to  accept  his  authority  without  question, 
so  far  as  I can  gather  it  from  his  works,  on  the  whole  subject 
of  abstraction. 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


129 


XXXII.  Happily  his  opinion  is  frankly  expressed.  Tliis 
moulding  is  on  the  lateral  buttress,  and  on  a level  with  the  top 
of  the  north  gate  ; it  cannot  therefore  be  closely  seen  except 
from  the  wooden  stairs  of  the  belfry  ; it  is  not  intended  to  be 
so  seen,  but  calculated  for  a distance  of,  at  least,  forty  to  fifty 
feet  from  the  eye.  In  the  vault  of  the  gate  itself,  half  as  near 
again,  there  are  three  rows  of  mouldings,  as  I think,  by  the 
same  designer,  at  aU  events  part  of  the  same  plan.  One  of 
them  is  given  in  Plate  I.  fig.  2 a.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  ab- 
straction is  here  infinitely  less  ; the  ivy  leaves  have  stalks  and 
associated  fruit,  and  a rib  for  each  lobe,  and  are  so  far  under- 
cut as  to  detach  their  forms  from  the  stone  ; while  in  the  vine- 
leaf  moulding  above,  of  the  same  period,  from  the  south  gate, 
serration  appears  added  to  other  purely  imitative  characters. 
Finally,  in  the  animals  which  form  the  ornaments  of  the  por- 
tion of  the  gate  which  is  close  to  the  eye,  abstraction  nearly 
vanishes  into  perfect  sculpture. 

XXXni.  Nearness  to  the  eye,  however,  is  not  the  only  cm- 
cumstance  which  influences  architectural  abstraction.  These 
very  animals  are  not  merely  better  cut  because  close  to  the 
eye  ; they  are  put  close  to  the  eye  that  they  may,  without  in- 
discretion, be  better  cut,  on  the  noble  principle,  first  I think, 
clearly  enunciated  by  Mr.  Eastlake,  that  the  closest  imitation 
shall  be  of  the  noblest  object.  Farther,  since  the  wildness 
and  manner  of  growth  of  vegetation  render  a bona  fide  imita- 
tion of  it  impossible  in  sculpture — since  its  members  must  be 
reduced  in  number,  ordered  in  direction,  and  cut  away  from 
their  roots,  even  under  the  most  earnestly  imitative  treatment, 
— it  becomes  'a  point,  as  I think,  of  good  judgment,  to  pro- 
portion the  completeness  of  execution  of  parts  to  the  formality 
of  the  whole  ; and  since  five  or  six  leaves  must  stand  for  a 
tree,  to  let  also  five  or  six  touches  stand  for  a leaf.  But  since 
the  animal  generally  admits  of  perfect  outline — since  its  form 
is  detached,  and  may  be  fully  represented,  its  sculpture  may 
be  more  complete  and  faithful  in  all  its  parts.  And  this  prin 
ciple  will  be  actually  found,  I believe,  to  guide  the  old  work 
men.  If  the  animal  form  be  in  a gargoyle,  incomplete,  and 
coming  out  of  a block  of  stone,  or  if  a head  only,  as  for  a boss 
9 


130 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


or  other  such  partial  use,  its  sculpture  will  be  highly  abstract. 
But  if  it  be  an  entire  aniiiial,  as  a lizard,  or  a Ihrd,  or  a 
scpiirrel,  peeping  among  leafage,  its  sculpture  will  be  much 
farther  carried,  and  I think,  if  small,  near  the  eye,  and  worked 
in  a fine  material,  may  rightly  be  carried  to  the  utmost  possi- 
ble completion.  Surely  we  cannot  wish  a less  finish  bestowed 
on  those  which  animate  the  mouldings  of  the  south  door  of 
the  cathedral  of  Florence ; nor  desire  that  the  birds  in  the 
capitals  of  the  Doge’s  palace  should  be  stripped  of  a single 
plume. 

XXXIV.  Under  these  limitations,  then,  I think  that  per- 
fect sculpture  may  l)e  made  a part  of  the  severest  architecture ; 
but  this  perfection  was  said  in  the  outset  to  be  dangerous.  It 
is  so  in  the  highest  degree ; for  the  moment  the  architect 
allows  himself  to  dwell  on  the  imitated  portions,  there  is  a 
chance  of  his  losing  sight  of  the  duty  of  his  ornament,  of  its 
business  as  a part  of  the  composition,  and  sacrificing  its  points 
of  shade  and  effect  to  the  delight  of  delicate  carving.  And 
then  he  is  lost.  His  architecture  has  become  a mere  frame- 
work for  the  setting  of  delicate  sculpture,  which  had  better 
be  all  taken  down  and  put  into  cabinets.  It  is  Avell,  there- 
fore, that  the  young  architect  shoidd  be  taught  to  think  of 
imitative  ornament  as  of  the  extreme  of  grace  in  language  ; not 
to  be  regarded  at  first,  not  to  be  obtained  at  the  cost  of  pur- 
pose, meaning,  force,  or  conciseness,  yet,  indeed,  a perfection 
— the  least  of  all  perfections,  and  yet  the  crowming  one  of  aU 
— one  which  by  itself,  and  regarded  in  itself,  is  an  architectu- 
ral coxcombry,  but  is  yet  the  sign  of  the  most  highly-trained 
mind  and  power  when  it  is  associated  mth  others.  It  is  a 
safe  manner,  as  I think,  to  design  all  things  at  first  in  severe  * 
abstraction,  and  to  be  prepared,  if  need  were,  to  carry  them 
out  in  that  form  ; then  to  mark  the  parts  where  high  finish 
would  be  admissible,  to  complete  these  always  with  stern  ref- 
erence to  their  general  effect,  and  then  connect  them  by  a 
graduated  scale  of  abstraction  with  the  rest.  And  there  is 
one  safeguard  against  danger  in  this  process  on  which  I 
would  finally  insist.  Never  imitate  anything  but  natm’al_ 
forms,  and  those  the  noblest,  in  the  completed  parts.  The 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


131 


degradation  of  the  cinque  cento  manner  of  decoration  was  not 
owing  to  its  naturalism,  to  its  faithfulness  of  imitation,  but  to 
its  imitation  of  ugly,  i.e.  unnatural  things.  So  long  as  it  re- 
strained itself  to  sculpture  of  animals  and  flowers,  it  remained 
noble.  The  balcony,  on  the  opposite  page,  from  a house  in 
the  Campo  St.  Benedetto  at  Venice,  shows  one  of  the  earliest 
occurrences  of  the  cinque  cento  arabesque,  and  a fragment  of 
the  pattern  is  given  in  Plate  XII.  fig.  8.  It  is  but  the  arrest- 
ing upon  the  stone  work  of  a stem  or  two  of  the  living  flowers, 
which  are  rarely  wanting  in  the  window  above  (and  which,  by 
the  by,  the  French  and  Italian  peasantry  often  trellis  with  ex- 
quisite taste  about  their  casements).  This  arabesque,  relieved 
as  it  is  in  darkness  from  the  white  stone  by  the  stain  of  time, 
is  surely  both  beautiful  and  pure  ; and  as  long  as  the  renais- 
sance ornament  remained  in  such  forms  it  may  be  beheld  with 
undeseiwed  admiration.  But  the  moment  that  unnatural  ob- 
jects were  associated  with  these,  and  armor,  and  musical  in- 
struments, and  wild  meaningless  scrolls  and  curled  shields,  and 
other  such  fancies,  became  principal  in  its  subjects,  its  doom 
was  sealed,  and  with  it  that  of  the  architecture  of  the  world. 

XXXV.  m.  Our  final  inquiry  was  to  be  into  the  use  of 
color  as  associated  with  architectural  ornament. 

I do  not  feel  able  to  speak  with  any  confidence  respecting 
the  touching  of  sculpture  with  color.  I would  only  note  one 
point,  that  sculpture  is  the  representation  of  an  idea,  while 
architecture  is  itself  a real  thing.  The  idea  may,  as  I think, 
be  left  colorless,  and  colored  by  the  beholder’s  mind  : but  a 
reality  ought  to  have  reahty  in  all  its  attributes  : its  color 
should  be  as  fixed  as  its  form.  I cannot,  therefore,  consider 
architecture  as  in  any  wise  perfect  without  color.  Farther,  as 
I have  above  noticed,  I think  the  colors  of  architecture  should 
be  those  of  natural  stones  ; partly  because  more  durable,  but 
also  because  more  perfect  and  graceful.  For  to  conquer  the 
harshness  and  deadness  of  tones  laid  upon  stone  or  on  gesso, 
needs  the  management  and  discretion  of  a true  painter  ; and 
on  this  co-operation  we  must  not  calculate  in  laying  down  rules 
for  general  practice.  If  Tintoret  or  Giorgione  are  at  hand, 
and  ask  us  for  a wall  to  pamt,  we  will  alter  our  whole  design 


132 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


for  their  sake,  and  become  their  sei’vants  ; l)ut  we  must,  as 
architects,  expect  the  aid  of  the  common  workman  only  ; and 
the  laying  of  color  by  a mechanical  hand,  and  its  toning  under 
a vulgar  eye,  are  far  more  offensive  than  rudeness  in  cutting  the 
stone.  The  latter  is  imperfection  only  ; the  former  deadness 
’ or  discordance.  At  the  best,  such  color  is  so  inferior  to  the 
lovely  and  mellow  hues  of  the  natural  stone,  that  it  is  wise  to 
sacrifice  some  of  the  intricacy  of  design,  if  by  so  doing  we 
may  employ  the  nobler  material.  And  if,  as  we  looked  to 
Nature  for  instruction  respecting  form,  we  look  to  her  also  to 
learn  the  management  of  color,  we  shall,  perhaps,  find  that  this 
sacrifice  of  intricacy  is  for  other  causes  expedient. 

XXXVI.  First,  then,  I think  that  in  making  this  reference 
we  are  to  consider  our  building  as  a kind  of  organized  creat- 
ure ; in  coloring  which  we  must  look  to  the  single  and  sep- 
arately organized  creatures  of  Nature,  not  to  her  landscape 
combinations.  Our  building,  if  it  is  well  composed,  is  one 
thing,  and  is  to  be  colored  as  Nature  would  color  one  thing — 
a shell,  a flower,  or  an  animal ; not  as  she  colors  gToups  of 
things. 

And  the  first  broad  conclusion  we  shall  deduce  from  observ- 
ance of  natural  color  in  such  cases  will  be,  that  it  never  fol- 
lows form,  but  is  arranged  on  an  entirely  separate  system. 
What  mysterious  connection  there  may  be  between  the  shajie 
of  the  spots  on  an  animal’s  skin  and  its  anatomical  system,  I 
do  not  know,  nor  even  if  such  a connection  has  in  any  wise 
been  traced:  but  to  the  eye  the  systems  are  entirely  separate, 
and  in  many  cases  that  of  color  is  accidentally  variable.  The 
stripes  of  a zebra  do  not  follow  the  lines  of  its  body  or  limbs, 
still  less  the  spots  of  a leopard.  Li  the  plumage  of  birds, 
each  feather  bears  a part  of  the  pattern  which  is  arbitrarily 
carried  over  the  body,  having  indeed  certain  graceful  harmo-» 
nies  with  the  form,  diminishing  or  enlarging  in  directions 
which  sometimes  follow,  but  also  not  unfrequently  oppose,  the 
directions  of  its  muscular  lines.  Whatever  harmonies  there 
may  be,  are  distinctly  like  those  of  two  separate  musical  parts, 
coinciding  here  and  there  only — never  discordant,  but  essen- 
tially different.  I hold  this,  then,  for  the  first  great  principle 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


133 


of  arcliitectiiral  color.  Let  it  be  visibly  independent  of  form. 
Never  paint  a column  with  vertical  lines,  but  always  cross  it.'® 
Nevei  give  separate  mouldings  separate  colors  (I  know  this  is 
heresy,  but  I never  shrink  from  any  conclusions,  however  con- 
trary to  human  authority,  to  which  I am  led  by  observance  of 
natural  prmciples) ; and  in  sculptured  ornaments  I do  not 
paint  the  leaves  or  figures  (I  cannot  help  the  Elgin  frieze)  of 
one  color  and  their  ground  of  another,  but  vary  both  the 
ground  and  the  figures  with  the  same  harmony.  Notice  how 
Nature  does  it  in  a variegated  flower  ; not  one  leaf  red  and 
another  white,  but  a point  of  red  and  a zone  of  white,  or  what- 
ever it  may  be,  to  each.  Li  certain  places  you  may  run  your 
two  S3^stems  closer,  and  here  and  there  let  them  be  parallel  for 
a note  or  two,  but  see  that  the  colors  and  the  forms  coincide 
only  as  two  orders  of  mouldings  do  ; the  same  for  an  instant, 
but  each  holding  its  own  course.  So  single  members  may 
sometimes  have  single  colors : as  a bird’s  head  is  sometimes 
of  one  color  and  its  shoulders  another,  you  may  make  your 
capital  of  one  color  and  your  shaft  another ; but  in  general 
thej^st_ place  for  color  is  on  broad  surfaces,  not  on  the  points 
of  interest  in  forpa.  An  animal  is  mottled  on  its  breast  and 
back,  rarely  on  its  paws  or  about  its  eyes  ; so  put  your  varie- 
gation boldly  on  the  flat  wall  and  broad  shaft,  but  be  shy  of 
iFin  the  capital  and  moulding;  in  all  cases  it  is  a safe  rule  to 
simplify  color  wlienTofm  is  rich,  and  vice  versa  ; and  I think 
it  would  be  well  in  general  to  carve  all  capitals  and  graceful 
ornaments  in  white  marble,  and  so  leave  them. 

XXXVII.  Independence  then  being  first  secured,  what  kind 
of  limiting  outlines  shall  we  adopt  for  the  system  of  color 
itself  ? 

■ I am  quite  sure  that  any  person  familiar  with  natural  ob- 
jects will  never  be  surprised  at  any  appearance  of  care  or  finish 
in  them.  That  is  the  condition  of  the  universe.  But  there  is 
cause  both  for  surprise  and  inquiry  whenever  we  see  anything 
like  carelessness  or  incompletion  : that  is  not  a common  condi- 
tion ; it  must  be  one  appointed  for  some  singular  purpose.  I 
believe  that  such  surprise  will  be  forcibly  felt  by  any  one  who, 
after  studying  carefully  the  Hues  of  some  variegated  organic 


134 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


form,  will  set  himself  to  copy  with  similar  diligence  those  of 
its  colors.  The  boundaries  of  the  forms  he  will  assuredly, 
whatever  the  object,  have  found  drawn  with  a delicacy  and 
precision  which  no  human  hand  can  follow.  Tliose  of  its 
colors  he  will  find  in  many  cases,  though  governed  always  by 
a certain  rude  symmetry,  yet  irregular,  blotched,  imperfect, 
liable  to  all  kinds  of  accidents  and  awkwardnesses.  Look  at 
the  tracery  of  the  lines  on  a camp  shell,  and  see  how  oddly  and 
awkwardly  its  tents  are  pitched.  It  is  not  indeed  always  so  : 
there  is  occasionally,  as  in  the  eye  of  the  peacock’s  plume,  an 
apparent  jmecision,  but  still  a precision  far  inferior  to  that  of 
the  drawing  of  the  filaments  which  bear  that  lovely  stain ; and 
in  the  plurality  of  cases  a degree  of  looseness  and  variation, 
and,  still  more  singularly,  of  harshness  and  violence  in  arrange- 
ment, is  admitted  in  color  which  would  be  monstrous  in  form. 
Observe  the  difference  in  the  precision  of  a fish’s  scales  and  of 
the  spots  on  them. 

XXX Vm.  Now,  why  it  should  be  that  color  is  best  seen 
under  these  circumstances  I will  not  here  endeavor  to  deter- 
mine ; nor  whether  the  lesson  we  are  to  learn  from  it  be  that 
it  is  God’s  will  that  aU  manner  of  delights  should  never  be 
combined  in  one  thing.  But  the  fact  is  certain,  that  color  is 
always  by  Him  arranged  in  these  simple  or  rude  forms,  and  as 
certain  that,  therefore,  it  must  be  best  seen  in  them,  and  that 
we  shall  never  mend  by  refining  its  arrangements.  Experience 
teaches  us  the  same  thing.  Infinite  nonsense  has  been  written 
about  the  union  of  perfect  color  with  perfect  form.  They  never 
Avill,  never  can  be  united.  Color,  to  be  perfect,  must  have  a 
soft  outline  or  a simple  one  : it  cannot  have  a refined  one  ; 
and  you  will  never  produce  a good  painted  window  with  good 
figure-drawing  in  it.  You  will  lose  perfection  of  color  as  you 
give  perfection  of  line.  Try  to  put  in  order  and  form  the 
colors  of  a piece  of  opal. 

XXXIX.  I conclude,  then,  that  all  arrangements  of  color, 
for  its  own  sake,  in  graceful  forms,  are  barbarous  ; and  that, 
to  paint  a color  pattern  with  the  lovely  lines  of  a Greek  leaf 
moulding,  is  an  utterly  savage  procedure.  I cannot  find  any- 
thing in  natural  color  like  this  : it  is  not  in  the  bond.  I find 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


135 


it  in  all  natural  form — never  in  natural  color.  If,  then,  our 
architectural  color  is  to  be  beautiful  as  its  form  -was,  by  being 
imitative,  we  are  limited  to  these  conditions — to  simple 
masses  of  it,  to  zones,  as  in  the  rainbow  and  the  zebra ; 
cloudings  and  flamings,  as  in  marble  shells  and  plumage,  or 
sj)ots  of  various  shapes  and  dimensions.  All  these  conditions 
are  susceptible  of  various  degrees  of  sharpness  and  delicacy, 
and  of  complication  in  arrangement.  The  zone  may  become 
a delicate  line,  and  arrange  itself  in  chequers  and  zig-zags. 
The  flaming  may  be  more  or  less  defined,  as  on  a tulip  leaf, 
and  may  at  last  be  represented  by  a triangle  of  color,  and 
arrange  itself  in  stars  or  other  shapes  ; the  spot  may  be  also 
graduated  into  a stain,  or  defined  into  a square  or  circle.  The 
most  exquisite  harmonies  may  be  composed  of  these  simple 
elements  : some  soft  and  full  of  flushed  and  melting  spaces 
of  color  ; others  piquant  and  sparkling,  or  deep  and  rich, 
formed  of  close  groups  of  the  fiery  fragments  : perfect  and 
lovely  proportion  may  be  exhibited  in  the  relation  of  their 
quantities,  infinite  invention  in  their  disposition  : Imt,  in  all 
cases,  their  shape  will  be  effective  only  as  it  determines  their 
quantity,  and  regulates  their  operation  on  each  other  ; points 
or  edges  of  one  being  introduced  between  breadths  of  others, 
and  so  on.  Triangular  and  barred  forms  are  therefore  con- 
venient, or  others  the  simplest  possible  ; leaving  the  pleasure 
of  the  spectator  to  be  taken  in  the  color,  and  in  that  only. 
Curved  outlines,  especially  if  refined,  deaden  the  color,  and 
confuse  the  mind.  Even  in  figure  painting  the  gTeatest 
colorists  have  either  melted  their  outline  away,  as  often 
Correggio  and  Rubens  ; or  purposely  made  their  masses  of  un- 
gainly shape,  as  Titian  ; or  placed  their  brightest  hues  in  cos- 
tume, where  they  could  get  quaint  patterns,  as  Veronese,  and 
especially  Angelico,  with  whom,  however,  the  absolute  virtue 
of  color  is  secondary  to  grace  of  line.’  Hence,  he  never  uses 
the  blended  hues  of  Correggio,  like  those  on  the  wing  of  the 
little  Cupid,  in  the  “Venus  and  Mercury,”  but  always  the 
severest  type — the  peacock  plume.  Any  of  these  men  w^ould 
have  looked  with  infinite  disgust  upon  the  leafage  and  scroll- 
work which  form  the  ground  of  color  in  our  modern  painted 


13G 


rilE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


windows,  and  yet  all  whom  I have  named  were  much  infected 
with  the  love  of  renaissance  designs.  We  must  also  allow  for 
the  freedom  of  the  painter’s  subject,  and  looseness  of  his 
associated  lines  ; a pattern  being  severe  in  a picture,  which  is 
over  luxurious  upon  a building.  I believe,  therefore,  that  it 
is  impossible  to  be  over  quaint  or  angular  in  architectural 
coloring  ; and  thus  many  disjoositions  which  I have  had  oc- 
casion to  reprobate  in  form,  are,  in  color,  the  best  that  can  be 
invented.  I have  always,  for  instance,  spoken  with  contempt 
of  the  Tudor  style,  for  this  reason,  that,  having  suiTendered 
all  pretence  to  spaciousness  and  breadth, — having  divided  its 
surfaces  by  an  infinite  number  of  lines,  it  yet  sacrifices  the 
only  characters  which  can  make  lines  beautiful  ; sacrifices  all 
the  variety  and  grace  which  long  atoned  for  the  caprice  of 
the  Flamboyant,  and  adopts,  for  its  leading  feature,  an  en- 
tanglement of  cross  bars  and  verticals,  showing  about  as  much 
invention  or  skill  of  design  as  the  reticulation  of  the  brick- 
layer’s sieve.  Yet  this  very  reticulation  w’ould  in  color  be 
highly  beautiful ; and  all  the  heraldry,  and  other  features 
which,  in  form,  are  monstrous,  may  be  delightful  as  themes 
of  color  (so  long  as  there  are  no  fluttering  or  over-twisted 
lines  in  them)  ; and  this  observe,  because,  when  colored,  they 
take  the  place  of  a mere  pattern,  and  the  resemblance  to 
nature,  which  could  not  be  found  in  their  sculptured  forms, 
is  found  in  their  piquant  variegation  of  other  surfaces.  There 
is  a beautiful  and  bright  bit  of  wall  painting  behind  the 
Duomo  of  Verona,  composed  of  coats  of  arms,  whose  bear- 
ings are  balls  of  gold  set  in  bars  of  green  (altered  blue  ?)  and 
white,  with  cardinal’s  hats  in  alternate  squares.  This  is  of 
course,  however,  fit  only  for  domestic  work.  The  front  of 
the  Doge’s  palace  at  Venice  is  the  purest  and  most  chaste 
model  that  I can  name  (but  one)  of  the  fit  application  of  color 
to  public  buildings.  The  sculpture  and  mouldings  are  all 
white  ; but  the  wall  surface  is  chequered  with  marble  blocks 
of  pale  rose,  the  chequers  being  in  no  wise  harmonized,  or 
fitted  to  the  forms  of  the  windows  ; but  looking  as  if  the  sur- 
face had  been  completed  first,  and  the  windows  cut  out  of  it. 
In  Plate  XTT.  fig.  2 the  reader  will  see  two  of  the  patterns 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


137 


used  in  green  and  white,  on  the  columns  of  San  Michele  of 
Lucca,  every  column  having  a different  design.  Both  are 
beautiful,  but  the  upper  one  certainly  the  best.  Yet  in  sculpt- 
ure its  lines  would  have  been  perfectly  barbarous,  and  those 
even  of  the  lower  not  enough  refined. 

XL.  Kestraining  ourselves,  therefore,  to  the  use  of  such 
simple  patterns,  so  far  forth  as  our  color  is  subordinate  either 
to  architectural  structure,  or  sculptural  form,  we  have  yet  one 
more  manner  of  ornamentation  to  add  to  our  general  means 
of  effect,  monochrome  design,  the  intermediate  condition  be- 
tween colormg  and  carving.  The  relations  of  the  entire  sys- 
tem of  architectural  decoration  may  then  be  thus  expressed. 

^1.  Organic  form  dominant.  True,  independent  sculpture,  and 
alto-relievo  ; rich  capitals,  and  mouldings  ; to  be  elaborate 
in  completion  of  form,  not  abstract,  and  either  to  be  left 
in  pure  white  marble,  or  most  cautiously  touched  Avith 
color  in  points  and  borders  only,  in  a system  not  concur- 
rent with  their  forms. 

2.  Organic  form  sub-dominant.  Basso-relievo  or  intaglio.  To 

be  more  abstract  in  proportion  to  the  reduction  of  depth  ; 
to  be  also  more  rigid  and  simple  in  contour  ; to  be 
touched  with  color  more  boldly  and  in  an  increased  de- 
gree, exactly  in  proportion  to  the  reduced  depth  and  ful- 
ness of  form,  but  still  in  a system  non-concurrent  with 
their  forms. 

3.  Organic  form  abstracted  to  outline.  Monochrome  design, 

still  farther  reduced  to  simplicity  of  contour,  and  there- 
fore admitting  for  the  first  time  the  color  to  be  concur- 
rent with  its  outlines  ; that  is  to  say,  as  its  name  imports, 
the  entire  figure  to  be  detached  in  one  color  from  a 
ground  of  another. 

4.  Organic  forms  entirely  lost.  Geometrical  patterns  or  vari- 

able cloudings  in  the  most  vivid  color. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  this  scale,  ascending  from  the  color 
pattern,  I would  place  the  various  forms  of  painting  which 
may  be  associated  with  architecture  : primarily,  and  as  most 


138 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


fit  for  Rucli  pui'pose,  the  mosaic,  highly  abstract  in  treatment, 
and  introducing  brilliant  color  in  masses ; the  Madonna  of 
Torcello  being,  as  I think,  the  noblest  tyj^e  of  the  manner,  ^md 
the  Baptistery  of  Parma  the  richest ; next,  the  purely  decora- 
tive fresco,  like  that  of  the  Ai-ena  Chapel ; finally,  the  fresco 
becoming  principal,  as  in  the  Vatican  and  Sistine.  But  I can- 
not, with  any  safety,  follow  the  principles  of  abstraction  in 
.this  pictorial  ornament ; since  the  noblest  examples  of  it 
appear  to  me  to  owe  their  architectural  applicability  to  their 
archaic  manner  ; and  I think  that  the  abstraction  and  admira- 
ble simplicity  which  render  them  fit  media  of  the  most  splen- 
did coloring,  cannot  be  recovered  by  a voluntary  condescen- 
sion. The  Byzantines  themselves  would  not,  I think,  if  they 
could  have  drawn  the  figure  better,  have  used  it  for  a color 
decoration  ; and  that  use,  as  peculiar  to  a condition  of  child- 
hood, how^ever  noble  and  full  of  promise,  cannot  be  included 
among  those  modes  of  adornment  which  are  now  legitimate  or 
even  possible.  There  is  a difficulty  in  the  management  of  the 
painted  window  for  the  same  reason,  which  has  not  yet  been 
met,  and  we  must  conquer  that  first,  before  we  can  venture  to 
consider  the  wall  as  a painted  window  on  a large  scale.  Pic- 
torial subject,  without  such  abstraction,  becomes  necessarily 
principal,  or,  at  all  events,  ceases  to  be  the  architect’s  concern  ; 
its  plan  must  be  left  to  the  painter  after  the  completion  of  the 
building,  as  in  the  works  of  Veronese  and  Giorgione  on  the 
j^alaces  of  Venice. 

XLI.  Pure  architectural  decoration,  then,  may  be  consid- 
ered as  limited  to  the  four  kinds  above  specified  ; of  which 
each  glides  almost  imperceptibly  into  the  other.  Thus,  the 
Elgin  frieze  is  a monochrome  in  a state  of  transition  to  sculpt- 
ure, retaining,  as  I think,  the  half-cast  skin  too  long.  Of 
pure  monochrome,  I have  given  an  example  in  Plate  VI.,  from 
the  noble  front  of  St.  Michele  of  Lucca.  It  contains  forty 
such  arches,  all  covered  with  equally  elaborate  ornaments,  en- 
tirely drawn  by  cutting  out  their  ground  to  about  the  depth 
of  an  inch  in  the  flat  white  marble,  and  filling  the  spaces  with 
pieces  of  green  serpentine  ; a most  elaborate  mode  of  sculpt- 
ui*e,  requiting  excessive  care  and  precision  in  the  fitting  of 


TUE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


139 


the  edges,  and  of  course  double  work,  the  same  line  needing 
to  be  cut  both  in  the  marble  and  serpentine.  The  excessive  sim- 
plicity of  the  forms  will  be  at  once  perceived  ; the  eyes  of  the 
figures  of  animals,  for  instance,  being  indicated  only  by  a 
round  dot,  formed  by  a little  inlet  circle  of  serpentine,  about 
half  an  inch  over  : but,  though  simple,  they  admit  often  much 
grace  of  curvature,  as  in  the  neck  of  the  bird  seen  above  the 
right  hand  pillar. The  pieces  of  serpentine  have  fallen  out 
in  many  places,  giving  the  black  shadows,  as  seen  under  the 
horseman’s  arm  and  bird’s  neck,  and  in  the  semi-circular  line 
round  the  arch,  once  filled  with  some  pattern.  It  would  have 
illustrated  my  point  better  to  have  restored  the  lost  portions, 
but  I always  draw  a thing  exactly  as  it  is,  hating  restoration 
of  any  kind  ; and  I would  especially  direct  the  reader’s  atten- 
tion to  the  completion  of  the  forms  in  the  sculptured  orna- 
ment of  the  marble  cornices,  as  opposed  to  the  abstraction  of 
the  monochrome  figures,  of  the  ball  and  cross  patterns  between 
the  arches,  and  of  the  triangular  ornament  round  the  arch  on 
the  left. 

XLII.  I have  an  intense  love  for  these  monochrome  figures, 
owing  to  their  wonderful  life  and  spirit  in  all  the  works  on 
which  I found  them  ; nevertheless,  I believe  that  the  exces- 
sive degree  of  abstraction  which  they  imply  necessitates  our 
placing  them  in  the  rank  of  a progressive  or  imperfect  art, 
and  that  a perfect  building  should  rather  be  composed  of  the 
highest  sculpture  (organic  form  dominant  and  sub-dominant), 
associated  with  pattern  colors  on  the  flat  or  broad  surfaces. 
And  we  find,  in  fact,  that  the  cathedral  of  Pisa,  which  is  a 
higher  type  than  that  of  Lucca,  exactly  follows  this  condition, 
the  coloj  being  put  in  geometrical  patterns  on  its  surfaces, 
and  animal-forms  and  lovely  leafage  used  in  the  sculptured 
cornices  and  pillars.  And  I think  that  the  grace  of  the  carved 
forms  is  best  seen  when  it  is  thus  boldly  opposed  to  severe 
traceries  of  color,  while  the  color  itself  is,  as  we  have  seen, 
always  most  piquant  when  it  is  put  into  sharp  angular  ar- 
rangements. Thus  the  sculpture  is  approved  and  set  off  by  the 
color,  and  the  color  seen  to  the  best  advantage  in  its  opposition 
both  to  the  whiteness  and  the  grace  of  the  carved  marble. 


140 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


XLIII.  In  the  course  of  this  and  the  preceding  chapters,  1 
have  now  separately  enumerated  most  of  the  conditions  of 
Power  and  Beauty,  which  in  the  outset  I stated  to  he  the 
grounds  of  the  deepest  impressions  with  which  architecture 
could  affect  the  human  mind  ; hut  I would  ask  permission  to 
recapitulate  them  in  order  to  see  if  there  he  any  building 
wliich  I may  offer  as  an  examj^le  of  the  unison,  in  such  man- 
ner as  is  possible,  of  them  all:  Glancing  hack,  then,  to  tlie 
beginning  of  the  third  chapter,  and  introducing  in  their  place 
the  conditions  incidentally  determined  in  the  two  previous 
sections,  we  shall  have  the  following  list  of  noble  characters  : 

Considerable  size,  exhibited  by  simple  terminal  hues  (Chap, 
in.  § 6).  Projection  towards  the  top  (§  7).  Breadth  of  flat 
surface  (§  8).  Square  compartments  of  that  surface  (§  9). 
Varied  and  visible  masonry  (§  11).  Vigorous  depth  of  shadow 
(§  13),  exhibited  especially  by  pierced  traceries  (§  18).  Varied 
proportion  in  ascent  (Chap.  IV.  § 28).  Lateral  symmetry  (§28). 
Sculpture  most  delicate  at  the  base  (Chap.  I.  § 12).  Enriched 
quantity  of  ornament  at  the  top  (§  13).  Sculj)ture  abstract  in 
inferior  ornaments  and  mouldings  (Chap.  IV.  § 31),  complete 
in  animal  forms  (§  33).  Both  to  be  executed  in  white  marble 
(§  40).  Vivid  color  introduced  in  flat  geometrical  patterns 
(§  39),  and  obtained  by  the  use  of  naturally  colored  stone  (§  35). 

These  characteristics  occur  more  or  less  in  different  build- 
ings, some  in  one  and  some  in  another.  But  all  together,  and 
all  in  their  highest  possible  relative  degrees,  they  exist,  as  far 
as  I know,  only  in  one  building  in  the  world,  the  Camj^anile 
of  Giotto  at  Florence.  The  drawing  of  the  tracery  of  its 
upper  story,  which  heads  this  chapter,  rude  as  it  is,  will  never- 
theless give  the  reader  some  better  concej^tion  of  that  tow^er’s 
magnificence  than  the  thin  outlines  in  which  it  is  usually 
portrayed.  In  its  first  appeal  to  the  stranger’s  eye  there  is 
something  unpleasing ; a mingling,  as  it  seems  to  him,  of  over 
severity  with  over  minuteness.  But  let  him  give  it  time,  as  he 
should  to  all  other  consummate  art.  I remember  well  how,  wdien 
a boy,  I used  to  des23ise  that  Campanile,  and  think  it  meanly 
smooth  and  finished.  But  I have  since  lived  beside  it  many  a 
day,  and  looked  out  upon  it  from  my  windows  by  sunlight  ana 


THE  LAMP  OF  BEAUTY. 


141 


moonlight,  and  I shall  not  soon  forget  how  profound  and 
gloomy  appeared  to  me  the  savageness  of  the  Northern  Gothic, 
when  I afterwards  stood,  for  the  first  time,  beneath  the  front 
of  Salisbury.  The  contrast  is  indeed  strange,  if  it  could  be 
quickly  felt,  between  the  rising  of  those  grey  walls  out  of  their 
quiet  swarded  sj^ace,  like  dark  and  barren  rocks  out  of  a green 
lake,  with  their  rude,  mouldering,  rough-grained  shafts,  and 
triple  lights,  without  tracery  or  other  ornament  than  the  mar- 
tins’ nests  in  the  height  of  them,  and  that  bright,  smooth, 
sunny  surface  of  glowing  jasper,  those  spiral  shafts  and  fairy 
traceries,  so  white,  so  faint,  so  crystalline,  that  their  slight  shapes 
are  hardly  traced  in  darkness  on  the  pallor  of  the  Eastern  sky, 
that  serene  height  of  mountain  alabaster,  colored  like  a morn- 
ing cloud,  and  chased  like  a sea  shell.  And  if  this  be,  as  I be- 
lieve it,  the  model  and  mirror  of  perfect  architecture,  is  there 
not  something  to  be  learned  by  looking  back  to  the  early  life 
of  him  who  raised  it  ? I said  that  the  Power  of  human  mind  1 
had  its  growth  in  the  Wilderness ; much  more  must  the  love  ' 
and  the  conception  of  that  beauty,  whose  every  line  and  hue 
we  have  seen  to  be,  at  the  best,  a faded  image  of  God’s  daily 
work,  and  an  arrested  ray  of  some  star  of  creation,  be  given 
chiefly  in  the  places  which  He  has  gladdened  bj'  planting  there 
the  fir  tree  and  the  pine.  Not  within  the  walls  of  Florence, 
but  among  the  far  away  fields  of  her  lilies,  was  the  child  trained 
who  was  to  raise  that  headstone  of  Beauty  above  the  towers 
of  watch  and  war.  Bern  ember  all  that  he  became ; count  the 
sacred  thoughts  with  which  he  filled  the  heart  of  Italy ; ask 
those  who  followed  him  what  they  learned  at  his  feet ; and  when 
you  have  numbered  his  labors,  and  received  their  testimony,  if 
it  seem  to  you  that  God  had  verily  poured  out  upon  this  His 
servant  no  common  nor  restrained  portion  of  His  Spirit,  and 
that  he  was  indeed  a king  among  the  children  of  men,  remem- 
ber also  that  the  legend  upon  his  crown  was  that  of  David’s  : — ■ 

I took  thee  from  the  sheepcote,  and  from  following  the  sheep.” 


142 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 

I.  Among  tlie  countless  analogies  hj  wliicli  the  nature  and 
relations  of  the  human  soul  are  illustrated  in  the  material 
creation,  none  are  more  striking  than  the  impressions  insep- 
arably connected  with  the  active  and  dormant  states  of  matter. 
I have  elsewhere  endeavored  to  show,  that  no  inconsiderable 
part  of  the  essential  characters  of  Beauty  depended  on  the 
expression  of  vital  energy  in  organic  things,  or  on  the  subjec- 
tion to  such  energy,  of  things  naturally  passive  and  powerless. 
1 need  not  here  repeat,  of  what  was  then  advanced,  more  than 
the  statement  which  I believe  will  meet  with  general  accept- 
ance, that  things  in  other  respects  alike,  as  in  their  substance, 
or  uses,  or  outward  forms,  are  noble  or  ignoble  in  proportion 
to  the  fulness  of  the  life  which  either  they  themselves  enjoy, 
or  of  whose  action  they  bear  the  evidence,  as  sea  sands  are 
made  beautiful  by  their  bearing  the  seal  of  the  motion  of  the 
waters.  And  this  is  especially  true  of  all  objects  which  bear 
upon  them  the  impress  of  the  highest  order  of  creative  hfe, 
that  is  to  say,  of  the  mind  of  man  : they  become  noble  or  ig- 
noble in  proportion  to  the  amount  of  the  energy  of  that  mind 
which  has  visibly  been  employed  upon  them.  But  most  pe- 
culiarly and  imperatively  does  the  rule  hold  with  respect  to 
the  creations  of  Architecture,  which  being  properly  capable 
of  no  other  life  than  this,  and  being  not  essentially  composed 
of  things  pleasant  in  themselves, — as  music  of  sweet  sounds, 
or  painting  of  fair  colors,  but  of  inert  substance, — depend, 
for  their  dignity  and  pleasurableness  in  the  utmost  degree, 
upon  the  vivid  expression  of  the  intellectual  life  which  has 
been  concerned  in  their  production. 

II.  Now  in  all  other  kind  of  energies  except  that  of  man’s 
mind,  there  is  no  cpiestion  as  to  what  is  life,  and  what  is  not. 
Vital  sensibilit}^,  whether  vegetable  or  animal,  may,  indeed,  be 
reduced  to  so  great  feebleness,  as  to  render  its  existence  a 
matter  of  question,  but  when  it  is  evident  at  all,  it  is  evident 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


143 


as  such  : there  is  no  mistaking  any  imitation  or  pretence  of  it 
for  the  life  itself  ; no  mechanism  nor  galvanism  can  take  its 
place  ; nor  is  any  resemblance  of  it  so  striking  as  to  involve 
even  hesitation  in  the  judgment ; although  many  occur  wliich 
the  human  imagination  takes  pleasure  in  exalting,  without  for 
an  instant  losing  sight  of  the  real  nature  of  the  dead  things  it 
animates  ; but  rejoicing  rather  in  its  own  excessive  life,  which 
puts  gesture  into  clouds,  and  joy  into  waves,  and  voices  into 
rocks. 

TTT.  But  when  we  begin  to  be  concerned  with  the  energies 
of  man,  we  find  ourselves  instantly  deahng  with  a double  creat- 
ure. Most  part  of  his  being  seems  to  have  a fictitious  coun- 
terpart, which  it  is  at  his  peril  if  he  do  not  cast  off  and  deny. 
Thus  he  has  a true  and  false  (otherwise  called  a living  and 
dead,  or  a feigned  or  unfeigned)  faith.  He  has  a true  and  a 
false  hope,  a true  and  a false  charity,  and,  finally,  a true  and  a 
false  hfe.  His  true  life  is  like  that  of  lower  organic  beings, 
the  independent  force  by  which  he  moulds  and  governs  exter- 
nal things  ; it  is  a force  of  assimilation  which  converts  every- 
thing around  him  into  food,  or  into  instruments  ; and  which, 
however  humbly  or  obediently  it  may  hsten  to  or  follow  the 
guidance  of  superior  intelligence,  never  forfeits  its  own 
authority  as  a judging  principle,  as  a will  capable  either  of 
obeying  or  rebelling.  His  false  hfe  is,  indeed,  but  one  of  the 
conditions  of  death  or  stupor,  but  it  acts,  even  when  it  cannot 
be  said  to  animate,  and  is  not  always  easily  known  from  the 
true.  It  is  that  life  of  custom  and  accident  in  which  many  of 
us  pass  much  of  our  time  in  the  world  ; that  hfe  in  which  we 
do  what  we  have  not  purposed,  and  speak  what  we  do  not 
mean,  and  assent  to  what  we  do  not  understand ; that  hfe 
which  is  overlaid  by  the  weight  of  things  external  to  it,  and  is 
moulded  by  them,  instead  of  assimilating  them  ; that,  wlhch 
instead  of  growing  and  blossoming  under  any  wholesome  dew, 
is  crystallised  over  with  it,  as  with  hoar  frost,  and  becomes  to 
the  true  hfe  what  an  arborescence  is  to  a tree,  a candied 
agglomeration  of  thoughts  and  habits  foreign  to  it,  brittle, 
obstinate,  and  icy,  which  can  neither  bend  nor  grow,  but 
must  be  crushed  and  broken  to  bits,  if  it  stand  in  our  way. 


144 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


All  men  are  liable  to  be  in  some  degree  frost-bitten  in  this 
sort ; all  are  partly  encumbered  and  crusted  over  with  idle 
matter  ; only,  if  they  have  real  life  in  them,  they  are  always 
breaking  this  bark  away  in  noble  rents,  until  it  becomes,  like 
the  black  strips  upon  the  l:>irch  tree,  only  a witness  of  their 
own  inward  strength.  But,  with  all  the  efforts  that  the  best 
men  make,  much  of  their  being  passes  in  a kind  of  dream,  in 
which  they  indeed  move,  and  play  their  parts  sufficiently,  to 
the  eyes  of  their  fellow-dreamers,  but  have  no  clear  conscious- 
ness of  what  is  around  them,  or  within  them  ; blind  to  the 
one,  insensible  to  the  other,  voiOpou  I would  not  press  the 
definition  into  its  darker  application  to  the  dull  heart  and 
heavy  ear  ; I have  to  do  with  it  only  as  it  refers  to  the  too  fre- 
quent condition  of  natural  existence,  whether  of  nations  or  in- 
dividuals, settling  commonly  upon  them  in  proportion  to  their 
age.  The  life  of  a nation  is  usually,  like  the  flow  of  a lava 
stream,  first  bright  and  fierce,  then  languid  and  covered,  at 
last  advancing  only  by  the  tumbling  over  and  over  of  its  frozen 
blocks.  And  that  last  condition  is  a sad  one  to  look  upon. 
All  the  steps  are  marked  most  clearly  in  the  arts,  and  in  Archi- 
tecture more  than  in  any  other  ; for  it,  being  especially  de- 
pendent, as  we  have  just  said,  on  the  warmth  of  the  true  life, 
is  also  pecuharly  sensible  of  the  hemlock  cold  of  the  false  ; 
and  I do  not  know  anything  more  oppressive,  when  the  mind 
is  once  awakened  to  its  characteristics,  than  the  aspect  of  a 
dead  architecture.  The  feebleness  of  childhood  is  full  of 
promise  and  of  interest, — the  struggle  of  imperfect  knowledge 
full  of  energy  and  continuity, — but  to  see  impotence  and  ri- 
gidity settling  upon  the  form  of  the  developed  man  ; to  see 
the  types  which  once  had  the  die  of  thought  struck  fresh 
upon  them,  worn  flat  by  over  use  ; to  see  the  shell  of  the 
living  creature  in  its  adult  form,  when  its  colors  are  faded, 
and  its  inhabitant  perislied, — this  is  a sight  more  humiliat- 
ing, more  melancholy,  than  the  vanishing  of  all  knowledge, 
and  the  return  to  confessed  and  helpless  infancy. 

Nay,  it  is  to  be  wished  that  such  return  were  always  possi- 
ble. There  would  l^e  hope  if  we  could  change  palsy  into 
puerility  ; but  I know  not  how  far  we  caii  become  children 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


145 


again,  and  renew  our  lost  life.  The  stirring  which  has  taken 
place  in  our  architectural  aims  and  interests  within  these  few 
years,  is  thought  by  many  to  be  full  of  promise  : I trust  it  is, 
but  it  has  a sickly  look  to  me.  I cannot  tell  whether  it  be 
indeed  a springmg  of  seed  or  a shaking  among  bones  ; and  I 
do  not  think  the  time  will  be  lost  which  I ask  the  reader  to 
spend  in  the  inquiry,  how  far  all  that  we  have  hitherto  ascer- 
tained or  conjectured  to  be  the  best  in  principle,  may  be  for- 
mally practised  without  the  spirit  or  the  vitality  which  alone 
could  give  it  influence,  value,  or  delightfulness. 

IV.  Now,  in  the  first  place — and  this  is  rather  an  important 
point — it  is  no  sign  of  deadness  in  a present  art  that  it  borrows 
or  imitates,  but  only  if  it  borrows  without  paying  interest,  or 
if  it  imitates  without  choice.  The  art  of  a great  nation,  which 
is  developed  without  any  acquaintance  with  nobler  examples 
than  its  own  early  efforts  furnish,  exhibits  always  the  most 
consistent  and  comprehensible  growth,  and  perhaps  is  re- 
garded usually  as  peculiarly  venerable  m its  self-origination. 
But  there  is  something  to  my  mind  more  majestic  yet  in  the 
life  of  an  architecture  hke  that  of  the  Lombards,  rude  and  in- 
fantine in  itself,  and  surrounded  by  fragments  of  a nobler  art 
of  which  it  is  quick  in  admiration  and  ready  in  imitation,  and 
yet  so  strong  in  its  own  new  instincts  that  it  re-constructs  and 
re-arranges  every  fragment  that  it  copies  or  borrows  into  har- 
mony with  its  own  thoughts, — a harmony  at  first  disjointed 
and  awkward,  but  completed  in  the  end,  and  fused  into  per- 
fect organisation  ; all  the  borrowed  elements  bemg  subordi’ 
nated  to  its  own  primal,  unchanged  life.  I do  not  know  any 
sensation  more  exquisite  than  the  discovering  of  the  evidence 
of  this  magnificent  struggle  into  independent  existence  ; the 
detection  of  the  borrowed  thoughts,  nay,  the  findmg  of  the  ac- 
tual blocks  and  stones  carved  by  other  hands  and  in  other  ages, 
wrought  into  the  new  walls,  with  a new  expression  and  purpose 
given  to  them,  like  the  blocks  of  unsubdued  rocks  (to  go  back 
to  our  former  simile)  which  we  find  in  the  heart  of  the  lava 
current,  great  witnesses  to  the  power  which  has  fused  all  but 
those  calcined  fragments  into  the  mass  of  its  homogeneous 
fire. 


10 


14G 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


V.  It  will  be  risked,  How  is  imitation  to  be  rendered  bealtk. 
and  vital  ? Unhappily,  while  it  is  easy  to  enumerate  the  signs 
of  life,  it  is  impossible  to  define  or  to  communicate  life  ; and 
while  every  intelligent  wnter  on  Art  has  insisted  on  the  differ- 
ence between  the  copying  found  in  an  advancing  or  recedent 
period,  none  have  been  able  to  communicate,  in  the  slightest 
degree,  the  force  of  vitality  to  the  copyist  over  whom  they 
might  have  influence.  Yet  it  is  at  least  interesting,  if  not 
profitable,  to  note  that  two  very  distinguishing  characters  of 
vital  imitation  are,  its  Frankness  and  its  Audacity  ; its  Frank- 
ness is  especially  singular  ; there  is  never  any  effort  to  con- 
ceal the  degree  of  the  sources  of  its  borrowing.  Haffaelle 
carries  off  a whole  figure  from  Masaccio,  or  borrows  an  entire 
composition  from  Perugino,  wdth  as  much  tranquillity  and 
simplicity  of  innocence  as  a young  Spartan  pickpocket ; and 
the  architect  of  a Romanesque  basilica  gathered  his  columns 
and  capitals  where  he  could  find  them,  as  an  ant  picks  up 
sticks.  There  is  at  least  a presumption,  when  w^e  find  this 
frank  acceptance,  that  there  is  a sense  within  the  mind  of 
power  capable  of  transforming  and  renewing  whatever  it 
adopts  ; and  too  conscious,  too  exalted,  to  fear  the  accusation 
of  plagiarism, — too  certain  that  it  can  prove,  and  has  proved, 
its  independence,  to  be  afraid  of  expressing  its  homage  to 
what  it  admires  in  the  most  open  and  indubitable  w’ay  ; and 
the  necessary  consequence  of  this  sense  of  power  is  the  other 
sign  I have  named — the  Audacity  of  treatment  when  it  finds 
treatment  necessary,  the  unhesitating  and  sweeping  sacrifice 
of  precedent  where  precedent  becomes  inconvenient.  For  in- 
stance, in  the  characteristic  forms  of  Italian  Romanesque,  in 
wdiich  the  h^q^aethral  portion  of  the  heathen  temple  w^as  re- 
placed by  the  towering  nave,  and  where,  in  consequence,  the 
pediment  of  the  w^est  front  became  divided  into  three  portions, 
of  which  the  central  one,  like  the  apex  of  a ridge  of  sloping 
strata  lifted  by  a sudden  fault,  was  broken  away  from  and 
raised  above  the  wings  ; there  remained  at  the  extremities  of 
the  aisles  two  triangular  fragments  of  pediment,  which  could 
not  now  be  filled  by  any  of  the  modes  of  decoration  adapted 
for  the  unbroken  space  ; and  the  difficulty  became  greater, 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


147 


when  the  central  portion  of  the  front  was  occupied  by  column 
nar  ranges,  which  could  not,  without  painful  abruptness,  ter- 
minate short  of  the  extremities  of  the  wings.  I know  not 
what  expedient  would  have  been  adopted  by  architects  who 
had  much  respect  for  precedent,  under  such  circumstances, 
but  it  certainly  would  not  have  been  that  of  the  Pisan, — to 
continue  the  range  of  columns  into  the  pedimental  space, 
shortening  them  to  its  extremity  until  the  shaft  of  the  last 
column  vanished  altogether,  and  there  remained  only  its 
tal  resting  in  the  angle  on  its  basic  i^linth.  I raise  no  ques- 
tion at  present  whether  this  arrangement  be  graceful  or  other- 
wise ; I allege  it  only  as  an  instance  of  boldness  almost  without 
a parallel,  casting  aside  every  received  principle  that  stood  in 
its  way,  and  struggling  through  every  discordance  and  difii- 
culty  to  the  fulfilment  of  its  own  instincts. 

yi.  Frankness,  however,  is  in  itself  no  excuse  for  repetition, 
nor  audacity  for  innovation,  when  the  one  is  indolent  and  the 
other  unwise.  Nobler  and  surer  signs  of  vitality  must  be 
sought, — signs  independent  alike  of  the  decorative  or  original 
character  of  the  style,  and  constant  in  every  style  that  is  de- 
terminedly progressive. 

Of  these,  one  of  the  most  important  I believe  to  be  a cer- 
tain neglect  or  contempt  of  refinement  in  execution,  or,  at  all 
events,  a visible  subordination  of  execution  to  conception, 
commonly  involuntary,  but  not  unfrequently  intentional. 
This  is  a point,  however,  on  which,  while  I speak  confidently, 
I must  at  the  same  time  reservedly  and  carefully,  as  there 
would  otherwise  be  much  chance  of  my  being  dangerously 
misunderstood.  It  has  been  truly  observed  and  well  stated 
by  Lord  Lindsay,  that  the  best  designers  of  Italy  were  also 
the  most  careful  in  their  workmanship  ; and  that  the  stability 
and  finish  of  their  masonry,  mosaic,  or  other  work  whatsoever, 
were  alw^ays  perfect  in  proportion  to  the  apparent  improbabil- 
ity of  the  great  designers  condescending  to  the  care  of  details 
among  us  so  despised.  Not  only  do  I fully  admit  and  re-as- 
sert  this  most  important  fact,  but  I would  insist  upon  perfect 
>md  most  delicate  finish  in  its  right  place,  as  a characteristic 
of  all  the  highest  schools  of  architecture,  as  much  as  it  is 


148 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


those  of  painting.  But  on  the  other  hand,  as  perfect  finisli 
]:>elongs  to  the  perfected  art,  a progressive  finish  belongs  to 
2)rogressive  art ; and  I do  not  think  that  any  more  fatal  sign 
of  a stupor  or  numbness  settling  upon  that  undeveloped  art 
could  2^ossibly  be  detected,  than  that  it  had  been  taken  aback 
by  its  own  execution,  and  that  the  workmanship  had  gone 
ahead  of  the  design  ; while,  even  in  my  admission  of  absolute 
finisli  in  the  right  place,  as  an  attribute  of  the  perfected 
school,  I must  reserve  to  myself  the  right  of  answering  in  my 
own  way  the  two  very  important  questions,  what  is  finish? 
and  what  is  its  right  place  ? 

VII.  But  ill  illustrating  either  of  these  points,  we  must 
remember  that  the  correspondence  of  workmanship  with 
thought  is,  in  existent  examples,  interfered  with  by  the  adoji- 
tion  of  the  designs  of  an  advanced  period  by  the  workmen  of 
a rude  one.  All  the  beginnings  of  Christian  architecture  are 
of  this  kind,  and  the  necessary  consequence  is  of  course  an 
increase  of  the  visible  interval  between  the  power  of  realisa- 
tion and  the  beauty  of  the  idea.  We  have  at  first  an  imita- 
tion, almost  savage  in  its  rudeness,  of  a classical  design ; as 
the  art  advances,  the  design  is  modified  by  a mixture  of 
Gothic  grotesqueness,  and  the  execution  more  complete,  until 
a harmony  is  established  between  the  two,  in  which  balance 
they  advance  to  new  perfection.  Now  during  the  whole 
period  in  which  the  ground  is  being  recovered,  there  will  be 
found  in  the  living  architecture  marks  not  to  be  mistaken,  of 
intense  impatience  ; a struggle  towards  something  unattained, 
which  causes  all  minor  points  of  handling  to  be  neglected  ; 
and  a restless  disdain  of  all  qualities  which  aj^pear  either  to 
confess  contentment  or  to  require  a time  and  care  which 
might  be  better  spent.  And,  exactly  as  a good  and  earnest 
student  of  dra\ving  wiU  not  lose  time  in  ruling  lines  or  finish- 
ing backgrounds  about  studies  which,  while  they  have  an- 
swered his  immediate  purpose,  he  knows  to  be  imperfect  and 
inferior  to  what  he  will  do  hereafter, — so  the  vigor  of  a true 
school  of  early  architecture,  which  is  either  working  under 
the  influence  of  high  example  or  which  is  itself  in  a state  of 
rapid  development,  is  very  curiously  traceable,  among  other 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE, 


149 


signs,  in  the  contempt  of  exact  symmetry  and  measurement, 
which  in  dead  architecture  are  the  most  painful  necessities. 

VIII.  In  Plate  XII.  fig.  1 I have  given  a most  singular  in- 
stance both  of  rude  execution  and  defied  symmetry,  in  the 
little  pillar  and  spandril  from  a panel  decoration  under  the 
pulpit  of  St.  Mark’s  at  Venice,  The  imperfection  (not  merely 
simplicity,  but  actual  rudeness  and  ugliness)  of  the  leaf  orna- 
ment will  strike  the  eye  at  once  : this  is  general  in  works  of 
the  time,  but  it  is  not  so  common  to  find  a capital  which  has 
been  so  carelessly  cut ; its  imperfect  volutes  being  pushed  up 
one  side  far  higher  than  on  the  other,  and  contracted  on  that 
side,  an  additional  drill  hole  being  put  in  to  fill  the  space  ; 
besides  this,  the  member  a,  of  the  mouldings,  is  a roll  where 
it  follows  the  arch,  and  a flat  fillet  at  a ; the  one  being  slurred 
into  the  other  at  the  angle  h,  and  finally  stopped  short  alto^ 
gether  at  the  other  side  by  the  most  uncourteous  and  re- 
morseless interference  of  the  outer  moulding  : and  in  spite  of 
all  this,  the  grace,  proportion,  and  feeling  of  the  whole  ar- 
rangement are  so  great,  that,  in  its  place,  it  leaves  nothing  to 
be  desired  ; all  the  science  and  symmetry  in  the  world  could 
not  beat  it.  In  fig.  4 I have  endeavored  to  give  some  idea  of 
the  execution  of  the  subordinate  portions  of  a much  higher 
work,  the  pulpit  of  St.  Andrea  at  Pistoja,  by  Nicolo  Pisano. 
It  is  covered  with  figure  sculptures,  executed  with  great  care 
and  delicacy ; but  when  the  sculptor  came  to  the  simple  arch 
mouldings,  he  did  not  choose  to  draw  the  eye  to  them  by  over 
precision  of  work  or  over  sharpness  of  shadow.  The  section 
adopted,  k,  m,  is  pecuharly  simple,  and  so  slight  and  obtuse 
in  its  recessions  as  never  to  produce  a sharp  line  ; and  it  is 
worked  with  what  at  first  appears  slovenliness,  but  it  is  in  fact 
sculptural  sketching ; exactly  correspondent  to  a painter’s 
light  execution  of  a background  : the  lines  appear  and  disap- 
pear again,  are  sometimes  deep,  sometimes  shallow,  sometimes 
quite  broken  off ; and  the  recession  of  the  cusp  joins  that  of 
the  external  arch  at  n,  in  the  most  fearless  defiance  of  all 
mathematical  laws  of  curvilinear  contact. 

IX.  There  is  something  very  delightful  in  this  bold  expres’ 
sion  of  the  mind  of  the  great  master.  I do  not  say  that  it  is 


150 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


the  ‘^perfect  work”  of  patience,  hut  I think  that  impatience 
is  a glorious  character  in  an  advancing  school ; and  I love  the 
Romanesque  and  eaii}^  Gothic  esj^ecially,  because  they  afford 
so  much  room  for  it ; accidental  carelessness  of  measurement 
or  of  execution  being  mingled  undistinguishably  with  the 
^ purposed  dej^artures  from  symmetrical  regularity,  and  the 
luxuriousness  of  perpetually  variable  fancy,  which  are  emi- 
nently characteristic  of  both  styles.  How  gTeat,  how  fre- 
quent they  are,  and  how  brightly  the  severity  of  architectural 
law  is  relieved  by  their  grace  and  suddenness,  has  not,  I 
think,  been  enough  observed  ; still  less,  the  unequal  meas- 
urements of  even  important  features  professing  to  be  abso- 
lutely symmetrical.  I am  not  so  familiar  with  modern  prac- 
tice as  to  speak  with  confidence  respecting  its  ordinary 
precision  ; but  I imagine  that  the  following  measures  of  the 
western  front  of  the  cathedral  of  Pisa,  would  be  looked  upon 
by  present  architects  as  very  blundering  approximations. 
That  front  is  divided  into  seven  arched  compartments,  of 
which  the  second,  fourth  or  central,  and  sixth  contain  doors  ; 
the  seven  are  in  a most  subtle  alternating  proportion  ; the 
central  being  the  largest,  next  to  it  the  second  and  sixth,  then 
the  first  and  seventh,  lastly  the  third  and  fifth.  By  this  ar- 
rangement, of  course,  these  three  pairs  should  be  equal ; and 
they  are  so  to  the  eye,  but  I found  their  actual  measures  to 
be  the  following,  taken  from  pillar  to  pillar,  in  Italian  braccia, 
palmi  (four  inches  each),  and  inches  : — 


1.  Central  door 8 

2.  Nortliern  door  } 6 

3.  Sontliern  door  ( 6 

4.  Extreme  nortliern  space  ) 5 

5.  Extreme  southern  space  ( 6 

6.  Nortliern  intervals  between  the  doors  ) 5 

7.  Southern  intervals  between  the  doors  f 5 


Palmi. 

Inches. 

Total  in 
Inches. 

0 

0 

= 192 

3 

G 

157i 

4 

3 

= 163 

5 

= 143.1 

1 

Oi 

= 1481 

2 

1 

= 129 

2 

H 

= 1291 

There  is  thus  a difference,  severally,  between  2,  3 and  4,  5, 
of  five  inches  and  a half  in  the  one  case,  and  five  inches  in  the 
other. 

X.  This,  however,  may  perhaps  be  partly  attributable  to 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


151 


some  accommodation  of  the  accidental  distortions  which  evi- 
dently took  place  in  the  walls  of  the  cathedral  during  their 
building,  as  much  as  in  those  of  the  campanile.  To  my  mind, 
those  of  the  Duomo  are  far  the  most  wonderful  of  the  two  : I 
do  not  believe  that  a single  pillar  of  its  walls  is  absolutely 
vertical : the  pavement  rises  and  falls  to  different  heights,  or 
rather  the  plinth  of  the  walls  sinks  into  it  continually  to  dif- 
ferent depths,  the  whole  west  front  literally  overhangs  (I  have 
not  plumbed  it ; but  the  inclination  may  be  seen  by  the  eye, 
by  bringing  it  into  visual  contact  with  the  upright  pilasters  of 
the  Campo  Santo) : and  a most  extraordinary  distortion  in 
the  masonry  of  the  southern  wall  shows  that  this  inclination 
had  begun  when  the  first  story  was  built.  The  cornice  above 
the  first  arcade  of  that  wall  touches  the  tops  of  eleven  out  of 
its  fifteen  arches  ; but  it  suddenly  leaves  the  tops  of  the  four 
westernmost ; the  arches  nodding  westward  and  sinking  into 
the  ground,  while  the  cornice  rises  (or  seems  to  rise),  leaving 
at  any  rate,  whether  by  the  rise  of  the  one  or  the  fall  of  the 
other,  an  interval  of  more  than  two  feet  between  it  and  the 
top  of  the  western  arch,  filled  by  added  courses  of  masonry. 
There  is  another  very  curious  evidence  of  this  struggle  of  the 
architect  with  his  yielding  wall  in  the  columns  of  the  main 
entrance.  (These  notices  are  perhaps  somewhat  irrelevant  to 
our  immediate  subject,  but  they  appear  to  me  highly  interest- 
ing ; and  they,  at  all  events,  prove  one  of  the  points  on  which 
I would  insist, — how  much  of  imperfection  and  variety  in 
things  professing  to  be  symmetrical  the  eyes  of  those  eager 
builders  could  endure  : they  looked  to  loveliness  in  detail,  to 
nobility  in  the  whole,  never  to  petty  measurements.)  Those 
columns  of  the  principal  entrance  are  among  the  loveliest  in 
Italy ; cylindrical,  and  decorated  with  a rich  arabesque  of 
sculptured  foliage,  which  at  the  base  extends  nearly  all  round 
them,  up  to  the  black  pilaster  in  which  they  are  lightly  en- 
gaged : but  the  shield  of  foliage,  bounded  by  a severe  line, 
narrows  to  their  tops,  where  it  covers  their  frontal  segment 
only  ; thus  giving,  when  laterally  seen,  a terminal  line  sloping 
boldly  outwards,  which,  as  I think,  was  meant  to  conceal  the 
accidental  leaning  of  the  western  walls,  and,  by  its  exagger* 


152 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


ated  inclination  in  tlie  same  direction,  to  throw  them  by  com. 
parison  into  a seeming  vertical. 

XI.  There  is  another  very  curious  instance  of  distortion 
above  the  central  door  of  the  west  front.  All  the  intervals  be- 
tween the  seven  arches  are  filled  with  black  marble,  each  con- 
taining in  its  centre  a white  parallelogram  filled  with  animal 
mosaics,  and  the  whole  surmounted  by  a broad  white  band, 
which,  generally,  does  not  touch  the  parallelogram  below. 
But  the  parallelogram  on  the  north  of  the  central  arch  has 
been  forced  into  an  oblique  position,  and  touches  the  white 
band  ; and,  as  if  the  architect  was  determined  to  show  that 
he  did  not  care  whether  it  did  or  not,  the  wliite  band  suddenly 
gets  thicker  at  that  place,  and  remains  so  over  the  two  next 
arches.  And  these  differences  are  the  more  curious  because 
the  workmanship  of  them  all  is  most  finished  and  masterly, 
and  the  distorted  stones  are  fitted  with  as  much  neatness  as 
if  they  tallied  to  a hair’s  breadth.  There  is  no  look  of  slur- 
ring or  blundering  about  it  ; it  is  all  coolly  filled  in,  as  if  the 
builder  had  no  sense  of  anything  being  wrong  or  extraordi- 
nary : I only  wish  we  had  a little  of  his  impudence. 

XII.  Still,  the  reader  will  say  that  all  these  variations  are 
probably  dej^endent  more  on  the  bad  foundation  than  on  the 
architect’s  feeling.  Not  so  the  exquisite  delicacies  of  change 
in  the  proportions  and  dimensions  of  the  apparently  symmetri- 
cal arcades  of  the  west  front.  It  will  be  remembered  that 
I said  the  tower  of  Pisa  was  the  only  ugly  tower  in  Italy, 
because  its  tiers  were  equal,  or  nearly  so,  in  height ; a fault 
this,  so  contrary  to  the  spirit  of  the  builders  of  the  time,  that 
it  can  be  considered  only  as  an  unlucky  caprice.  Perhaps  the 
general  aspect  of  the  west  front  of  the  cathedral  may  then 
have  occurred  to  the  reader’s  mind,  as  seemingly  another  con- 
tradiction of  the  rule  I had  advanced.  It  would  not  have  been 
so,  however,  even  had  its  four  upper  arcades  been  actually 
equal ; as  they  are  subordinated  to  the  great  seven-arched 
lower  story,  in  the  manner  before  noticed  respecting  the  spire 
of  Salisbury,  and  as  is  actually  the  case  in  the  Duomo  of  Lucca 
and  Tower  of  Pistoja.  But  the  Pisan  front  is  far  more  subtly 
proportioned.  Not  one  of  its  four  arcades  is  of  like  height 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


153 


witli  another.  The  highest  is  the  third,  counting  upwards  j 
and  they  diminish  in  nearly  arithmetical  proportion  alter- 
nately ; in  the  order  3rd,  1st,  2nd,  4th.  The  inequalities  in 
their  arches  are  not  less  remarkable  : they  at  first  strike  the 
eye  as  all  equal ; but  there  is  a grace  about  them  which 
equality  never  obtained  : on  closer  observation,  it  is  perceived 
that  in  the  first  row  of  nineteen  arches,  eighteen  are  equal, 
and  the  central  one  larger  than  the  rest ; in  the  second  arcade, 
the  nine  central  arches  stand  over  the  nine  below,  having,  like 
them,  the  ninth  central  one  largest.  But  on  their  flanks,  where 
is  the  slope  of  the  shoulder-like  pediment,  the  arches  vanish, 
and  a wedge-shaped  frieze  takes  their  place,  tapering  outwards, 
ill  order  to  allow  the  columns  to  be  carried  to  the  extremity  of 
the  pediment ; and  here,  w^here  the  heights  of  the  shafts  are 
so  far  shortened,  they  are  set  thicker  ; five  shafts,  or  rather 
four  and  a capital,  above,  to  four  of  the  arcade  below,  giving 
twenty-one  intervals  instead  of  nineteen.  In  the  next  or  third 
arcade, — which,  remember,  is  the  highest, — eight  arches,  all 
equal,  are  given  in  the  space  of  the  nine  below,  so  that  there 
is  now  a central  shaft  instead  of  a central  arch,  and  the  span 
of  the  arches  is  increased  in  porportion  to  their  increased 
height.  Finally,  in  the  uppermost  arcade,  which  is  the  lowest 
of  all,  the  arches,  the  same  in  number  as  those  below,  are 
narrower  than  any  of  the  fagade  ; the  whole  eight  going  very 
nearly  above  the  six  below  them,  while  the  terminal  arches  of 
the  lov/er  arcade  are  surmounted  by  flanking  masses  of  deco- 
rated wall  with  projecting  figures. 

Xm.  Now  I call  that  Living  Architecture.  There  is  sensa- 
tion in  every  inch  of  it,  and  an  accommodation  to  every 
architectural  necessity,  with  a determined  variation  in  ar- 
rangement, which  is  exactly  like  the  related  proportions  and 
provisions  in  the  structure  of  organic  form.  I have  not  space 
to  examine  the  still  lovelier  proportioning  of  the  external  shafts 
of  the  apse  of  this  marvellous  building.  I prefer,  lest  the 
reader  should  tliink  it  a peculiar  example,  to  state  the  stmct- 
ure  of  another  church,  the  most  graceful  and  grand  piece  of 
Eomanesque  work,  as  a fragment,  in  north  Italy,  that  of  San 
Giovanni  Evangelista  at  Pistoja. 


154 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


TIig  side  of  that  church  has  three  stories  of  arcade,  dimiu- 
ishing  in  height  in  bold  geometrical  proportion,  while  th(^ 
arches,  for  the  most  part,  increase  in  number  in  arithmetical, 
i.  e.  two  in  the  second  arcade,  and  three  in  the  third,  to  one 
in  the  first.  Lest,  however,  this  arrangement  should  be  too 
formal,  of  the  fourteen  arches  in  the  lowest  series,  that 
which  contains  the  door  is  made  larger  than  the  rest,  and  is 
not  in  the  middle,  but  the  sixth  from  the  West,  leaving  five  on 
one  side  and  eight  on  the  other.  Farther  : this  lowest  arcade 
is  tciTuinated  by  broad  flat  pilasters,  about  lialf  the  width  of 
its  arches  ; but  the  arcade  above  is  continuous  ; only  the  two 
extreme  arches  at  the  west  end  are  made  larger  than  all  the 
rest,  and  instead  of  coming,  as  they  should,  into  the  space  of 
the  lower  extreme  arch,  take  in  both  it  and  its  broad  2^ilaster. 
Even  this,  however,  was  not  out  of  order  enough  to  satisfy  the 
architect’s  eye  ; for  there  were  still  two  arches  above  to  each 
single  one  below  : so  at  the  east  end,  where  there  are  more 
arches,  and  the  eye  might  be  more  easily  cheated,  what  does 
he  do  but  narroio  the  two  extreme  lower  arches  by  half  a 
braccio  ; while  he  at  the  same  time  slightly  enlarged  the 
upper  ones,  so  as  to  get  only  seventeen  upper  to  nine  lower, 
instead  of  eighteen  to  nine.  The  eye  is  thus  thoroughly  con- 
fused, and  the  whole  building  tlu’own  into  one  mass,  by  the 
curious  variations  in  the  adjustments  of  the  superimposed 
shafts,  not  one  of  which  is  either  exactly  in  nor  positively  out 
of  its  place  ; and,  to  get  this  managed  the  more  cunningly, 
there  is  from  an  inch  to  an  inch  and  a half  of  gradual  gain  in 
the  space  of  the  four  eastern  arches,  besides  the  confessed 
half  braccio.  Their  measures,  counting  from  the  east,  I found 
as  follows  : — 

Braccia.  Palmi.  Inches. 


1st 3 0 1 

2nd 3 0 2 

3rd 3 3 2 

4tli. 3 3 3i 


The  upper  arcade  is  managed  on  the  same  principle  ; it 
looks  at  first  as  if  there  were  three  arches  to  each  undei  pair ; 
but  there  are,  in  reality,  only  thirty-eight  (or  thirty-seven,  I 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


155 


am  not  quite  certain  of  this  number)  to  the  twenty- seven  be- 
low ; and  the  columns  get  into  all  manner  of  relative  posi- 
tions. Even  then,  the  builder  was  not  satisfied,  but  must 
needs  carry  the  irregularity  into  the  spring  of  the  arches, 
and  actually,  while  the  general  effect  is  of  a symmetrical 
arcade,  there  is  not  one  of  the  arches  the  same  in  height  as 
another  ; their  tops  undulate  all  along  the  wall  like  waves 
along  a harbor  quay,  some  nearly  touching  the  string  course 
above,  and  others  falling  from  it  as  much  as  five  or  six 
inches. 

XIV.  Let  us  next  examine  the  plan  of  the  west  front  of  St. 
Mark’s  at  Venice,  which,  though  in  many  respects  imperfect, 
is  in  its  proportions,  and  as  a piece  of  rich  and  fantastic  color, 
as  lovely  a dream  as  ever  filled  human  imagination.  It  may, 
perhaps,  however,  interest  the  reader  to  hear  one  opposite 
opinion  upon  this  subject,  and  after  what  has  been  urged  in  the 
preceding  pages  respecting  proportion  in  general,  more  espe- 
cially respecting  the  wrongness  of  balanced  cathedral  towers 
and  other  regular  designs,  together  with  my  frequent  references 
to  the  Doge’s  palace,  and  campanile  of  St.  Mark’s,  as  models 
of  perfection,  and  my  praise  of  the  former  especially  as  pro- 
jecting above  its  second  arcade,  the  following  extracts  from 
the  journal  of  Wood  the  architect,  written  on  his  arrival 
at  Venice,  may  have  a pleasing  freshness  in  them,  and  may 
show  that  I have  not  been  stating  principles  altogether  trite 
or  accepted. 

“ The  strange  looking  church,  and  the  great  ugly  campanile, 
could  not  be  mistaken.  The  exterior  of  this  church  surprises 
you  by  its  extreme  ugliness,  more  than  by  anything  else.” 

“ The  Ducal  Palace  is  even  more  ugly  than  anything  I have 
previously  mentioned.  Considered  in  detail,  I can  imagine  no 
alteration  to  make  it  tolerable  ; but  if  this  lofty  wall  had  been 
set  back  behind  the  two  stories  of  little  arches,  it  would  have 
been  a very  noble  production.” 

After  more  observations  on  ‘‘a  certain  justness  of  propor- 
tion,” and  on  the  appearance  of  riches  and  power  in  the  church, 
to  which  he  ascribes  a pleasing  effect,  he  goes  on  : “ Some  per- 
sons are  of  opinion  that  irregularity  is  a necessary  part  of  its 


15G 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


excellence.  I am  decidedly  of  a contrary  opinion,  and  am  con- 
vinced that  a regular  design  of  the  same  sort  would  be  far  su- 
perior. Let  an  oblong  of  good  architecture,  but  not  very 
showy,  conduct  to  a fine  cathedral,  which  should  appear  be- 
tween two  lofty  towers  and  have  two  obelisks  in  front,  and  on 
each  side  of  this  cathedral  let  other  squares  partially  open  into 
the  first,  and  one  of  these  extend  down  to  a harbor  or  sea 
shore,  and  j'ou  w^ould  have  a scene  which  might  challenge  any 
thing  in  existence.” 

Why  Mr.  Wood  was  unable  to  enjoy  the  color  of  St.  Mark’s, 
or  perceive  the  majesty  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  the  reader  will  see 
after  reading  the  two  following  extracts  regarding  the  Caracci 
and  Michael  Angelo. 

“ The  pictures  here  (Bologna)  are  to  my  taste  far  preferable 
to  those  of  Venice,  for  if  the  Venetian  school  surpass  in  color- 
ing, and,  perhaps,  in  composition,  the  Bolognese  is  decidedly 
superior  in  drawing  and  expression,  and  the  Caraccis  shine  here 
like  Gods.” 

“What  is  it  that  is  so  much  admired  in  this  artist  (M.  An- 
gelo) ? Some  contend  for  a grandem’  of  composition  in  the 
lines  and  disposition  of  the  figures ; this,  I confess,  I do  not 
comprehend ; yet,  while  I acknowledge  the  beauty  of  certain 
forms  and  proportions  in  architecture,  I cannot  consistently 
deny  that  similar  merits  may  exist  in  painting,  though  I am 
unfortunately  unable  to  appreciate  them.” 

I think  these  passages  very  valuable,  as  showing  the  effect 
of  a contracted  knowledge  and  false  taste  in  painting  upon  an 
architect’s  understanding  of  his  own  art ; and  especially  with 
what  curious  notions,  or  lack  of  notions,  about  proportion,  that 
art  has  been  sometimes  practised.  For  Mr.  Wood  is  by  no 
means  unintelligent  in  his  observations  generally,  and  his  criti- 
cisms on  classical  art  are  often  most  valuable.  But  those  who  ^ 
love  Titian  better  than  the  Caracci,  and  who  see  something  to 
admire  in  Michael  Angelo,  will,  perhaps,  be  willing  to  proceed 
with  me  to  a charitable  examination  of  St.  Mark’s.  For,  al- 
though the  present  course  of  European  events  affords  us  some 
chance  of  seeing  the  changes  proposed  by  Mr.  Wood  carried 
into  execution,  we  may  still  esteem  ourselves  fortunate  in  hav- 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE.  157 

ing  first  known  liow  it  was  left  ky  tlie  builders  of  the  eleventh 
century. 

XV.  The  entire  front  is  composed  of  an  upper  and  lower 
series  of  arches,  enclosing  spaces  of  wall  decorated  with  mosaic, 
and  supported  on  ranges  of  shafts  of  which,  in  the  lower  series 
of  arches,  there  is  an  upper  range  superimposed  on  a lower. 
Thus  we  have  five  vertical  divisions  of  the  fayade  ; i.e.  two  tiers 
of  shafts,  and  the  arched  wall  they  bear,  below  ; one  tier  of 
shafts,  and  the  arched  wall  they  bear,  above.  In  order,  how- 
ever, to  bind  the  two  main  divisions  together,  the  central 
low^er  arch  (the  main  entrance)  rises  above  the  level  of  the 
gallery  and  balustrade  which  crown  the  lateral  arches. 

The  proportioning  of  the  columns  and  walls  of  the  lower 
story  is  so  lovely  and  so  varied,  that  it  would  need  pages  of 
description  before  it  could  be  fully  understood  ; but  it  may  be 
generally  stated  thus  : The  height  of  the  lower  shafts,  upper 
shafts,  and  w^all,  being  severally  expressed  by  a,  b,  and  c,  then 
a : c ::  c : b (a  being  the  highest)  ; and  the  diameter  of  shaft 
b is  generally  to  the  diameter  of  shaft  a as  height  b is  to  height 
a,  or  something  less,  allowing  for  the  large  plinth  which  dimin- 
ishes the  apparent  height  of  the  upper  shaft : and  when  this  is 
their  proportion  of  width,  one  shaft  above  is  put  above  one 
below,  with  sometimes  another  upper  shaft  interposed  : but  in 
the  extreme  arches  a single  under  shaft  bears  tw^o  upper,  pro- 
portioned as  truly  as  the  boughs  of  a tree  ; that  is  to  say, 
the  diameter  of  each  upper  = f of  lower.  There  being  thus 
the  three  terms  of  proportion  gained  in  the  lower  story,  the 
upper,  while  it  is  only  divided  into  two  main  members,  in 
order  that  the  whole  height  may  not  be  divided  into  an  even 
number,  has  the  third  term  added  in  its  pinnacles.  So  far  of 
the  vertical  division.  The  lateral  is  stiU  more  subtle.  There 
are  seven  arches  in  the  lower  story ; and,  calling  the  central 
arch  a,  and  counting  to  the  extremity,  they  diminish  in  the 
alternate  order  a,  c,  b,  d.  The  upper  story  has  five  arches,  and 
two  added  pinnacles  ; and  these  diminish  in  regidar  order,  the 
central  being  the  largest,  and  the  outermost  the  least.  Hence, 
while  one  proportion  ascends,  another  descends,  like  parts  in 
music ; and  yet  the  pyramidal  form  is  secured  for  the  whole, 


158 


THE  LAME  OF  LIFE. 


and,  wliicli  was  anotlier  great  point  of  attention,  none  of  the 
shafts  of  the  upper  arches  stand  over  those  of  the  lower. 

XVI.  It  might  have  been  thought  that,  by  this  plan,  enough 
variety  had  been  secured,  but  the  builder  was  not  satisfied  even 
thus  : for — and  this  is  the  point  bearing  on  the  present  part  of 
our  subject — always  calling  the  central  arch  a,  and  the  lateral 
ones  h and  c in  succession,  the  northern  h and  c are  consider- 
ably wider  than  the  southern  h and  c,  but  the  southern  d is  as 
much  wider  than  the  northern  d,  and  lower  beneath  its  cornice 
besides  ; and,  more  than  this,  I hardly  believe  that  one  of  the 
effectively  symmetrical  members  of  the  facade  is  actually  sym- 
metrical with  any  other.  I regret  that  I cannot  state  the  actual 
measures.  I gave  up  the  taking  them  upon  the  spot,  owing  to 
their  excessive  complexity,  and  the  embarrassment  caused  by 
the  yielding  and  subsidence  of  the  arches. 

Do  not  let  it  be  supposed  that  I imagine  the  Byzantine 
workmen  to  have  had  these  various  principles  in  their  minds  as 
they  built.  I believe  they  built  altogether  from  feehng,  and 
that  it  was  because  the}^  did  so,  that  there  is  this  marvellous 
life,  changefulness,  and  subtlety  running  through  their  every 
arrangement ; and  that  we  reason  upon  the  lovely  building  as 
we  should  upon  some  fair  growth  of  the  trees  of  the  earth, 
that  know  not  their  own  beauty. 

XVn.  Perhaps,  however,  a stranger  instance  than  any  I have 
3^et  given,  of  the  daring  variation  of  pretended  symmetry,  is 
found  in  the  front  of  the  Cathedral  of  Bayeux.  It  consists  of 
five  arches  with  steep  pediments,  the  outermost  filled,  the  three 
central  with  doors ; and  they  appear,  at  first,  to  diminish  in 
regular  proportion  from  the  principal  one  in  the  centre.  The 
two  lateral  doors  are  very  curiously  managed.  The  tympana 
of  their  arches  are  filled  with  bas-reliefs,  in  four  tiers  ; in  the 
lowest  tier  there  is  in  each  a little  temple  or  gate  containing 
the  principal  figure  (in  that  on  the  right,  it  is  the  gate  of  Hades 
Avith  Lucifer).  This  little  temple  is  carried,  like  a capital,  by 
an  isolated  shaft  which  divides  the  whole  arch  at  about  f of  its 
breadth,  the  larger  portion  outmost ; and  in  that  larger  por- 
tion is  the  inner  entrance  door.  This  exact  correspondence,  in 
the  treatment  of  both  gates,  might  lead  us  to  expect  a corre- 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


150 


spondence  in  dimension.  Not  at  all.  The  small  inner  northern 
entrance  measures,  in  English  feet  and  inches,  4 ft.  7 in.  from 
jamb  to  jamb,  and  the  southern  five  feet  exactly.  Five  inches 
in  five  feet  is  a considerable  variation.  The  outer  northern 
porch  measures,  from  face  shaft  to  face  shaft,  13  ft.  11  in.,  and 
the  southern,  14  ft.  6 in. ; giving  a difference  of  7 in.  on  14^  ft. 
There  are  also  variations  in  the  pediment  decorations  not  less 
extraordinary. 

XVin.  I imagine  I have  given  instances  enough,  though  I 
could  multiply  them  indefinitely,  to  prove  that  these  variations 
are  not  mere  blunders,  nor  carelessnesses,  but  the  result  of  a 
fixed  scorn,  if  not  dislike,  of  accuracy  in  measurements ; and,  in 
most  cases,  I believe,  of  a determined  resolution  to  work  out 
an  effective  symmetry  by  variations  as  subtle  as  those  of  Na- 
ture. To  what  lengths  this  principle  was  sometimes  carried, 
we  shall  see  by  the  very  singular  management  of  the  towers  of 
Abbeville.  I do  not  say  it  is  right,  still  less  that  it  is  wrong, 
but  it  is  a wonderful  proof  of  the  fearlessness  of  a living  archi- 
tecture ; for,  say  what  we  will  of  it,  that  Flamboyant  of  France, 
however  morbid,  was  as  vivid  and  intense  in  its  animation  as 
ever  any  phase  of  mortal  mind  ; and  it  would  have  lived  till 
now,  if  it  had  not  taken  to  telling  lies.  I have  before  noticed 
the  general  difficulty  of  managing  even  lateral  division,  when 
it  is  into  two  equal  parts,  unless  there  be  some  third  reconcil- 
ing member.  I shall  give,  hereafter,  more  examples  of  the 
modes  in  which  this  reconciliation  is  effected  in  towers  with 
double  lights : the  Abbeville  architect  put  his  sword  to  the 
knot  perhaps  rather  too  sharply.  Vexed  by  the  want  of  unity 
between  his  two  windows  he  literally  laid  their  heads  together, 
and  so  distorted  their  ogee  curves,  as  to  leave  only  one  of  the 
trefoiled  panels  above,  on  the  inner  side,  and  three  on  the 
outer  side  of  each  arch.  The  arrangement  is  given  in  Plate 
XII.  fig.  3.  Associated  with  the  various  undulation  of  flam- 
boyant curves  below,  it  is  in  the  real  tower  hardly  observed, 
while  it  binds  it  into  one  mass  in  general  effect.  Granting  it, 
however,  to  be  ugly  and  wi’ong,  I like  sins  of  the  kind,  for  the 
sake  of  the  courage  it  requires  to  commit  them.  In  plate,  11. 
(part  of  a small  chapel  attached  to  the  West  front  of  the 


160 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


Cathedral  of  St.  Lo),  the  reader  will  see  an  instance,  from  the 
same  architecture,  of  a violation  of  its  own  principles,  for  the 
sake  of  a peculiar  meaning.  If  there  be  any  one  feature  which 
the  flamboyant  architect  loved  to  decorate  richly,  it  was  the 
niche — it  was  what  the  capital  is  to  the  Corinthian  order  ; yet 
in  the  case  before  us  there  is  an  ugly  beehive  put  in  the  place 
of  the  principal  niche  of  the  arch.  I am  not  sure  if  I am  right 
in  my  interpretation  of  its  meaning,  but  I have  little  doubt 
that  two  figures  below,  now  broken  away,  once  represented 
an  Annunciation  ; and  on  another  part  of  the  same  cathedral, 
I find  the  descent  of  the  Spirit,  encompassed  by  rays  of  light, 
represented  very  nearly  in  the  form  of  the  niche  in  question  ; 
which  appears,  therefore,  to  be  intended  for  a representation 
of  this  effulgence,  while  at  the  same  time  it  was  made  a canopy 
for  the  delicate  figures  below.  Whether  this  was  its  meaning 
or  not,  it  is  remarkable  as  a daring  departure  from  the  com- 
mon habits  of  the  time. 

XIX.  Far  more  splendid  is  a license  taken  with  the  niche 
decoration  of  the  portal  of  St.  Maclou  at  Kouen.  The  sub- 
ject of  the  tympanum  bas-relief  is  the  Last  Judgment,  and 
the  sculpture  of  the  inferno  side  is  carried  out  with  a degree 
of  power  whose  fearful  grotesqueness  I can  only  describe  as 
a mingling  of  the  minds  of  Orcagna  and  Hogarth.  The  de- 
mons are  perhaps  even  more  awful  than  Orcagna’s ; and,  in 
some  of  the  expressions  of  debased  humanity  in  its  utmost 
despair,  the  English  painter  is  at  least  equalled.  Not  less 
wild  is  the  imagination  which  gives  fury  and  fear  even  to  the 
placing  of  the  figures.  An  evil  angel,  poised  on  the  wing, 
drives  the  condemned  troops  from  before  the  Judgment  seat ; 
with  his  left  hand  he  drags  behind  him  a cloud,  which  is 
spreading  hke  a winding-sheet  over  them  all ; but  they  are 
urged  by  him  so  furiously,  that  they  are  driven  not  merely  to 
the  extreme  limit  of  that  scene,  which  the  sculptor  confined 
elsewhere  within  the  tympanum,  but  out  of  the  tympanum 
and  into  the  niches  of  the  arch  ; while  the  flames  that  foUow 
them,  bent  by  the  blast,  as  it  seems,  of  the  angel’s  wings,  rush 
into  the  niches  also,  and  burst  up  through  their  tracery,  the 
three  lowermost  niches  being  represented  as  all  on  fire,  while, 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


IGl 


instead  of  tlieir  usual  vaulted  and  ribbed  ceiling,  there  is  a 
demon  in  the  roof  of  each,  with  his  wings  folded  over  it,  grin- 
ning down  out  of  the  black  shadow. 

XX.  I have,  however,  given  enough  instances  of  vitality 
showm  in  mere  daring,  whether  wise,  as  surely  in  this  last  in- 
stance, or  inexpedient ; but,  as  a single  example  of  the  Vital- 
ity of  Assimilation,  the  faculty  which  turns  to  its  purposes  all 
material  that  is  submitted  to  it,  I would  refer  the  reader  to 
the  extraordinary  columns  of  the  arcade  on  the  south  side  of 
the  Cathedral  of  FeiTara.  A single  arch  of  it  is  given  in  Plate 
XIII.  on  the  right.  Four  such  columns  forming  a group,  there 
are  interposed  two  pairs  of  columns,  as  seen  on  the  left  of  the 
same  plate  ; and  then  come  another  four  arches.  It  is  a long 
arcade  of,  I suppose,  not  less  than  forty  arches,  perhaps  of 
many  more  ; and  in  the  grace  and  simpHcity  of  its  stilted  By- 
zantine curves  I hardly  know  its  equal.  Its  like,  in  fancy  of 
column,  I certainly  do  not  know  ; there  being  hardly  two  cor- 
respondent, and  the  architect  having  been  ready,  as  it  seems, 
to  adopt  ideas  and  resemblances  from  any  sources  whatsoever. 
The  vegetation  growing  up  the  two  columns  is  fine,  though 
bizarre  ; the  distorted  pillars  beside  it  suggest  images  of  less 
agreeable  character  ; the  seiq)entine  arrangements  founded  on 
the  usual  Byzantine  double  knot  are  generally  graceful ; but 
I was  puzzled  to  account  for  the  excessively  ugly  tyj^e  of  the 
pillar,  fig.  3,  one  of  a group  of  four.  It  so  happened,  fortu- 
nately for  me,  that  there  had  been  a fair  in  Ferrara ; and, 
when  I had  finished  my  sketch  of  the  piUar,  I had  to  get  out 
of  the  way  of  some  merchants  of  miscellaneous  wares,  who 
were  removing  their  staU.  It  had  been  shaded  by  an  awning 
supported  by  poles,  which,  in  order  that  the  covering  might 
be  raised  or  lowered  according  to  the  height  of  the  sun,  were 
composed  of  two  separate  pieces,  fitted  to  each  other  by  a 
rack^  in  which  I beheld  the  prototype  of  my  ugly  pillar.  It 
will  not  be  thought,  after  what  I have  above  said  of  the  inex- 
pedience of  imitating  anything  but  natural  form,  that  I ad- 
vance this  architect’s  practice  as  altogether  exemplary  ; yet  the 
humility  is  instructive,  which  condescended  to  such  sources 
for  motives  of  thought,  the  boldness,  which  could  depart  so 
11 


102 


THE  LAMP  LIFE. 


far  from  all  cstaLlislied  types  of  form,  and  the  life  and  feel- 
ing, Wliich  out  of  an  assemblage  of  such  quaint  and  uncouth 
materials,  could  produce  an  harmonious  piece  of  ecclesiastical 
architecture. 

XXL  I have  dwelt,  however,  perhaps,  too  long  upon  that 
form  of  vitality  which  is  known  almost  as  much  by  its  errors 
as  by  its  atonements  for  them.  We  must  briefly  note  the 
operation  of  it,  which  is  always  right,  and  always  necessary, 
upon  those  lesser  details,  where  it  can  neither  be  superseded 
by  precedents,  nor  repressed  by  proprieties. 

I said,  early  in  this  essay,  that  hand-work  might  always  be 
known  from  macliine-work  ; observing,  however,  at  the  same 
time,  that  it  was  possible  for  men  to  turn  themselves  into  ma- 
chines, and  to  reduce  their  labor  to  the  machine  level ; but  so 
long  as  men  work  as  men,  putting  their  heart  into  what  they 
do,  and  doing  their  best,  it  matters  not  how  bad  workmen  they 
may  be,  there  will  be  that  in  the  handling  which  is  above  all 
price  : it  will  be  plainly  seen  that  some  places  have  been  de- 
lighted in  more  than  others — that  there  has  been  a pause,  and 
a care  about  them  ; and  then  there  will  come  careless  bits,  and 
fast  bits  ; and  here  the  chisel  will  have  struck  hard,  and  there 
lightly,  and  anon  timidly  ; and  if  the  man’s  mind  as  well  as 
his  heart  went  with  his  work,  all  this  will  be  in  the  right 
places,  and  each  part  will  set  off  the  other  ; and  the  effect  of 
the  whole,  as  compared  with  the  same  design  cut  by  a machine 
or  a lifeless  hand,  will  be  like  that  of  poetry  well  read  and 
deeply  felt  to  that  of  the  same  verses  jangled  by  rote.  There 
are  many  to  whom  the  difl:erence  is  imperceptible  ; but  to 
those  who  love  poetry  it  is  everything — they  had  rather  not 
hear  it  at  all,  than  hear  it  ill  read  ; and  to  those  who  love  Ar- 
chitecture, the  life  and  accent  of  the  hand  are  everything. 
They  had  rather  not  have  ornament  at  all,  than  see  it  ill  cut- 
deadly  cut,  that  is.  I cannot  too  often  repeat,  it  is  not  coarse 
cutting,  it  is  not  blunt  cutting,  that  is  necessarily  bad  ; but  it 
is  cold  cutting — the  look  of  equal  troulfle  everywliere — the 
smooth,  diffused  tranquillity  of  heartless  pains — the  regularity 
of  a plough  in  a level  field.  The  chill  is  more  likely,  indeed, 
to  show  itself  in  finished  work  than  in  any  other — men  cool 


THE  LAMP  OF ‘LIFE. 


1G3 


and  tire  as  they  complete  : and  if  completeness  is  thought  to 
be  vested  in  polish,  and  to  be  attainable  by  help  of  sand  paper, 
we  may  as  well  give  the  work  to  the  engine-lathe  at  once.  But 
right  finish  is  simply  the  full  rendering  of  the  intended  im- 
pression ; and  high  finish  is  the  rendering  of  a well  intended 
and  vivid  impression  ; and  it  is  oftener  got  by  rough  than  fine 
handling.  I am  not  sure  whether  it  is  frequently  enough  ob- 
sciwed  that  sculpture  is  not  the  mere  cutting  of  the  form  of 
anything  in  stone  ; it  is  the  cutting  of  the  effect  of  it.  Very 
often  the  true  form,  in  the  marble,  would  not  be  in  the  least 
like  itself.  The  sculptor  must  paint  with  his  chisel : half  his 
touches  are  not  to  realize,  but  to  put  power  into  the  form  : they 
are  touches  of  light  and  shadow  ; and  raise  a ridge,  or  sink  a 
hollow,  not  to  represent  an  actual  ridge  or  hollow,  but  to  get  a 
line  of  light,  or  a spot  of  darkness.  In  a coarse  way,  this  kind 
of  execution  is  very  marked  in  old  French  woodwork ; the 
irises  of  the  eyes  of  its  chimeric  monsters  being  cut  boldly 
into  holes,  wdiich,  variously  placed,  and  always  dark,  give  all 
kinds  of  strange  and  startling  expressions,  averted  and  askance, 
to  the  fantastic  countenances.  Perhaps  the  highest  examples 
of  this  kind  of  sculpture-painting  are  the  works  of  Mino  da 
Fiesole  ; their  best  effects  being  reached  by  strange  angulai’, 
and  seemingly  rude,  touches  of  the  chisel.  The  lips  of  one  of 
the  children  on  the  tombs  in  the  church  of  the  Badia,  appear 
only  half  finished  when  they  are  seen  close  ; yet  the  expression 
is  farther  carried  and  more  ineffable,  than  in  any  piece  of  mar- 
ble I have  ever  seen,  especially  considering  its  delicacy,  and  the 
softness  of  the  child-features.  In  a sterner  kind,  that  of  the 
statues  in  the  sacristy  of  St.  Lorenzo  equals  it,  and  there  again 
by  incompletion.  I know  no  example  of  work  in  which  the 
forms  are  absolutely  true  and  complete  where  such  a result  is 
attained  ; in  Greek  sculptures  is  not  even  attempted. 

XXn.  It  is  evident  that,  for  architectural  apphances,  such 
masculine  handling,  likely  as  it  must  be  to  retain  its  effective- 
ness when  higher  finish  would  be  injured  by  time,  must  al- 
ways be  the  most  expedient ; and  as  it  is  impossible,  even 
were  it  desirable  that  the  highest  finish  should  be  given  to 
the  quantity  of  work  which  covers  a large  building-,  it  will  be 


164 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


understood  how  precious  the  intelligence  must  become,  which 
renders  incompletion  itself  a means  of  additional  expression  ; 
and  how  great  must  be  the  difference,  when  the  touches  are 
rude  and  few,  between  those  of  a careless  and  those  of  a re- 
gardful mind.  It  is  not  easy  to  retain  anything  of  their  char- 
acter in  a copy  ; yet  the  reader  will  find  one  or  two  illustra- 
tive points  in  the  examples,  given  in  Plate  XIV.,  from  the 
bas-reliefs  of  the  north  of  Kouen  Cathedral  There  are  three 
square  pedestals  under  the  three  main  niches  on  each  side  of 
it,  and  one  in  the  centre  ; each  of  these  being  on  two  sides 
decorated  with  five  quatref oiled  panels.  There  are  thus  sev- 
enty quatrefoils  in  the  lower  ornament  of  the  gate  alone,  with- 
out counting  those  of  the  outer  course  round  it,  and  of  the 
pedestals  outside  : each  quatrefoil  is  fiUed  with  a bas-relief, 
the  whole  reaching  to  something  above  a man’s  height.  A 
modern  architect  would,  of  course,  have  made  all  the  five 
quatrefoils  of  each  pedestal-side  equal  : not  so  the  Mediaeval. 
The  general  form  being  apparently  a quatrefoil  comjDOsed  of 
semicii'cles  on  the  sides  of  a square,  it  will  be  found  on  ex- 
amination that  none  of  the  arcs  are  semicircles,  and  none  of 
the  basic  figures  squares.  The  latter  are  rhomboids,  having 
their  acute  or  obtuse  angles  uppermost  according  to  their 
larger  or  smaller  size  ; and  the  arcs  upon  their  sides  shde 
into  such  places  as  they  can  get  in  the  angles  of  the  enclosing 
parallelogram,  leaving  intervals,  at  each  of  the  four  angles,  of 
various  shapes,  which  are  filled  each  by  an  animal.  The  size 
of  the  whole  panel  being  thus  varied,  the  two  lowest  of  the  five 
are  tall,  the  next  two  short,  and  the  uppermost  a little  higher 
than  the  lowest ; while  in  the  course  of  bas-reliefs  which  sur- 
romids  the  gate,  calling  either  of  the  two  lowest  (which  are 
equal),  a,  and  either  of  the  next  two  6,  and  the  fifth  and  sixth 
c and  d,  then  d (the  largest) ; c ::  c : a ::  a : 5.  It  is  wonderful 
how  much  of  the  grace  of  the  whole  depends  on  these  variations. 

XXni.  Each  of  the  angles,  it  was  said,  is  fiUed  by  an  ani- 
mal. There  are  thus  70  x 4=280  animals,  all  different,  in  the 
mere  fiUings  of  the  intervals  of  the  bas-reliefs.  Thi’ee  of  these 
intervals,  with  their  beasts,  actual  size,  the  curves  being  traced 
upon  the  stone,  I have  given  in  Plate  XIV. 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


165 


I say  [nothing  of  their  general  design,  or  of  the  lines  of 
the  wings  and  scales,  which  are  perhaps,  unless  in  those  of 
the  central  dragon,  not  much  above  the  usual  commonplaces 
of  good  ornamental  work  ; but  there  is  an  evidence  in  the 
features  of  thoughtfulness  and  fancy  which  is  not  common,  at 
least  now-a-days.  The  upper  creature  on  the  left  is  biting 
something,  the  form  of  which  is  hardly  traceable  in  the  de- 
faced stone — but  biting  he  is  ; and  the  reader  cannot  but  re- 
cognise in  the  peculiarly  reverted  eye  the  expression  which  is 
never  seen,  as  I think,  but  in  the  eye  of  a dog  gnawing  some- 
thing in  jest,  and  preparing  to  start  away  with  it : the  mean- 
ing of  the  glance,  so  far  as  it  can  be  marked  by  the  mere  in- 
cision of  the  chisel,  will  be  felt  by  comparing  it  with  the  eye 
of  the  couchant  figime  on  the  right,  in  its  gloomy  and  angTy 
brooding.  The  plan  of  this  head,  and  the  nod  of  the  cap 
over  its  brow,  are  fine  ; but  there  is  a Httle  touch  above  the 
hand  especially  well  meant : the  fellow  is  vexed  and  puzzled 
in  his  mahce  ; and  his  hand  is  pressed  hard  on  his  cheek 
bone,  and  the  fiesh  of  the  cheek  is  wrinkled  under  the  eye  by 
the  pressure.  The  whole,  indeed,  looks  wretchedly  coarse, 
when  it  is  seen  on  a scale  in  which  it  is  naturall}^  compared 
with  delicate  figure  etchings  ; but  considering  it  as  a mere 
filling  of  an  interstice  on  the  outside  of  a cathedral  gate,  and 
as  one  of  more  than  three  hundred  (for  in  my  estimate  I did 
not  include  the  outer  pedestals),  it  proves  very  noble  vitality 
in  the  art  of  the  time. 

XXIV.  I beheve  the  right  question  to  ask,  respecting  aU 
ornament,  is  simply  this  : Was  it  done  with  enjoyment — was 
the  carver  happy  while  he  was  about  it  ? It  may  be  the  hard- 
est work  possible,  and  the  harder  because  so  much  pleasure 
was  taken  in  it ; but  it  must  have  been  happy  too,  or  it  will 
not  be  living.  How  much  of  the  stone  mason’s  toil  this  con- 
dition would  exclude  I hardly  venture  to  consider,  but  the 
condition  is  absolute.  There  is  a Gothic  church  lately  built 
near  Kouen,  vile  enough,  indeed,  in  its  general  composition, 
but  excessively  rich  in  detail ; many  of  the  details  are  designed 
with  taste,  and  all  evidently  by  a man  wlio  has  studied  old 
work  closely.  But  it  is  aU  as  dead  as  leaves  in  December ; 


1G6 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE. 


tlidre  is  not  one  tender  toucli,  not  one  warm  stroke,  on  the 
whole  fa9ade.  The  men  who  did  it  hated  it,  and  were  thanks 
fid  wlien  it  was  done.  And  so  long  as  they  do  so  they  are 
merely  loading  your  walls  with  shapes  of  clay : the  garlands 
of  everlastings  in  Pere  la  Chaise  are  more  cheerful  ornaments. 
You  cannot  get  the  feeling  by  paying  for  it — money  will  not 
buy  life.  I am  not  sure  even  that  you  can  get  it  by  watching 
or  waiting  for  it.  It  is  true  that  here  and  there  a workman 
may  be  fomid  who  has  it  in  him,  but  he  does  not  rest  con- 
tented in  the  inferior  work — he  struggles  forward  into  an 
Academician  ; and  from  the  mass  of  available  handicraftsmen 
the  power  is  gone — how  recoverable  I know  not : this  only  I 
know,  that  aU  expense  devoted  to  sculptural  ornament,  in  the 
present  condition  of  that  power,  comes  literally  under  the 
head  of  Sacrifice  for  the  sacrifice’s  sake,  or  worse.  I believe 
the  only  manner  of  rich  ornament  that  is  open  to  us  is  the 
geometrical  color-mosaic,  and  that  much  might  result  from  our 
strenuously  taking  up  this  mode  of  design.  But,  at  all  events, 
one  thing  we  have  in  our  power — the  doing  without  machine 
ornament  and  cast-iron  work.  All  the  stamped  metals,  and 
artificial  stones,  and  imitation  woods  and  bronzes,  over  the 
invention  of  which  we  hear  daily  exultation — all  the  short,  and 
cheap,  and  easy  ways  of  doing  that  whose  difficulty  is  its  honor 
— are  just  so  many  new  obstacles  in  our  already  encumbered 
road.  They  will  not  make  one  of  us  happier  or  wiser — they 
will  extend  neither  the  pride  of  judgment  nor  the  privilege  of 
enjoyment.  They  will  only  make  us  shallower  in  our  under- 
standings, colder  in  our  hearts,  and  feebler  in  our  wits.  And 
most  justly.  For  we  are  hot  sent  into  this  world  to  do  any 
thing  into  which  we  cannot  put  our  hearts.  We  have  certain 
work  to  do  for  our  bread,  and  that  is  to  be  done  strenuously  ; 
other  work  to  do  for  our  delight,  and  that  is  to  be  done  heart- 
ily : neither  is  to  be  done  by  halves  or  shifts,  but  with  a will ; 
and  what  is  not  worth  this  effort  is  not  to  be  done  at  all. 
Perhaps  aU  that  we  have  to  do  is  meant  for  nothing  more  than 
an  exercise  of  the  heart  and  of  the  will,  and  is  useless  in  itself  : 
but,  at  all  events,  the  little  use  it  has  may  well  be  spared  if  it 
is  not  worth  putting  ouv  hands  and  our  strength  to.  It  does 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMOR  Y. 


1G7 


not  become  our  immortality  to  take  an  ease  inconsistent  with 
its  authority,  nor  to  suffer  any  instruments  with  which  it  can 
dispense,  to  come  between  it  and  the  things  it  rules  : and  he 
Avho  would  form  the  creations  of  his  own  mind  by  any  other 
instrument  than  his  own  hand,  w^ould,  also,  if  he  might,  give 
grinding  organs  to  Heaven’s  angels,  to  make  their  music  easier. 
There  is  dreaming  enough,  and  earthiness  enough,  and  sensu- 
ality enough  in  human  existence  without  our  turning  the  few 
glowing  moments  of  it  into  mechanism  ; and  since  our  life 
must  at  the  best  be  but  a vapor  that  appears  for  a httle  time 
and  then  vanishes  away,  let  it  at  least  appear  as  a cloud  in  the 
height  of  Heaven,  not  as  the  thick  darkness  that  broods  over 
the  blast  of  the  Fuimace,  and  rolhng  of  the  Wheel. 


CHAPTEK  VI 

THE  LAMP  OF  MEMOKY. 

I Among  the  hours  of  his  life  to  which  the  writer  looks 
back  with  peculiar  gratitude,  as  having  been  marked  by  more 
than  ordinary  fulness  of  joy  or  clearness  of  teaching,  is  one 
passed,  now  some  years  ago,  near  time  of  sunset,  among  the 
broken  masses  of  pine  forest  which  skirt  the  course  of  the 
Ain,  above  the  village  of  Champagnole,  in  the  Jura.  It  is  a 
spot  which  has  all  the  solemnity,  with  none  of  the  savageness, 
of  the  Alps ; where  there  is  a sense  of  a great  power  begin- 
ning to  be  manifested  in  the  earth,  and  of  a deep  and  majestic 
concord  in  the  rise  of  the  long  low  lines  of  piny  hills  ; the 
first  utterance  of  those  mighty  mountain  symphonies,  soon  to 
be  more  loudly  lifted  and  wildly  broken  along  the  battlements 
of  the  Alps.  But  their  strength  is  as  yet  restrained  ; and  the 
far-reaching  ridges  of  pastoral  mountain  succeed  each  other, 
like  the  long  and  sighing  swell  which  moves  over  quiet  waters 
from  some  far-off  stormy  sea.  And  there  is  a deep  tenderness 
pervading  that  vast  monotony.  The  destructive  forces  and 
the  stern  expression  of  the  central  ranges  are  alike  withdrawn. 
No  frost-ploughed,  dust-encumbered  paths  of  ancient  glacier 


IGS 


Tllli:  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


fret  the  soft  Jura  pastures  ; no  splintered  heaps  of  ruin  breal? 
the  fair  ranks  of  her  forests  ; no  pale,  defiled,  or  furious  rivers 
rend  their  rude  and  changeful  ways  among  her  rocks.  Pa- 
tiently, eddy  by  eddy,  the  clear  green  streams  wind  along  their 
well-known  beds  ; and  under  the  dark  quietness  of  the  undis- 
turbed pines,  there  spring  up,  year  by  year,  such  company  of 
joyful  flowers  as  I know  not  the  like  of  among  all  the  bless- 
ings of  the  earth.  It  was  Spring  time,  too  ; and  aU  were  com- 
ing forth  in  clusters  crowded  for  very  love ; there  was  room 
enough  for  all,  but  they  crushed  their  leaves  into  all  manner 
of  strange  shapes  only  to  be  nearer  each  other.  There  was 
the  wood  anemone,  star  after  star,  closing  every  now  and  then 
into  nebulse : and  there  was  the  oxalis,  troop  by  troop  like 
virginal  processions  of  the  Mois  de  Marie,  the  dark  vertical 
clefts  in  the  limestone  choked  up  with  them  as  with  heavy 
snow,  and  touched  with  ivy  on  the  edges — ivy  as  light  and 
lovely  as  the  vine  ; and  ever  and  anon,  a blue  gush  of  violets, 
and  cowslip  bells  in  sunny  places  ; and  in  the  more  open 
ground,  the  vetch,  and  comfrey,  and  mezereon,  and  the  small 
sapphire  buds  of  the  Polygala  Alpina,  and  the  wild  strawberry, 
just  a blossom  or  two,  all  showered  amidst  the  golden  softness 
of  deep,  warm,  amber-colored  moss.  I came  out  jmesently  on 
the  edge  of  the  ravine  ; the  solemn  murmur  of  its  w^aters  rose 
suddenly  from  beneath,  mixed  with  the  singing  of  the  tln-ushes 
among  the  pine  boughs ; and,  on  the  opj^osite  side  of  the 
valley,  walled  all  along  as  it  was  by  grey  cliffs  of  limestone, 
there  was  a hawk  sailing  slowly  off  their  brow,  touching  them 
nearly  with  his  wings,  and  with  the  shadows  of  the  pines 
flickering  upon  his  plumage  from  above  ; but  with  a fall  of  a 
hundred  fathoms  under  his  breast,  and  the  curling  pools  of  the 
green  river  gliding  and  glittering  dizzily  beneath  him,  their 
foam  globes  moving  with  him  as  he  flew.  It  would  be  difii- 
cult  to  conceive  a scene  less  dependent  upon  any  other  interest 
than  that  of  its  own  secluded  and  serious  beauty  ; but  the 
writer  well  remembers  the  sudden  blankness  and  chill  which 
were  cast  upon  it  when  he  endeavored,  in  order  more  strictly 
to  arrive  at  the  sources  of  its  impressiveness,  to  imagine  it,  for 
a moment,  a scene  in  some  aboriginal  forest  of  the  New  Con- 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


169 


tinent.  The  flowers  in  an  instant  lost  their  light,  the  river  its 
music  ; the  hills  became  oppressively  desolate  ; a heaviness 
in  the  boughs  of  the  darkened  forest  showed  how  much  of 
their  former  power  had  been  dependent  upon  a life  which  was 
not  theirs,  how  much  of  the  glory  of  the  imperishable,  or  eon- 
tinually  renewed,  creation  is  reflected  from  things  more  pre- 
cious in  their  memories  than  it,  in  its  renewing.  Those  ever 
springing  flowers  and  ever  flowing  streams  had  been  dyed  by 
the  deep  colors  of  human  endurance,  valor,  and  virtue  ; and 
the  crests  of  the  sable  hills  that  rose  against  the  evening  sky 
received  a deeper  worship,  because  their  far  shadows  fell  east- 
ward over  the  iron  wall  of  Joux  and  the  four-square  keep  of 
Granson. 

n.  It  is  as  the  centralisation  and  protectress  of  this  sacred 
influence,  that  Architecture  is  to  be  regarded  by  us  with  the 
most  serious  thought.  We  may  live  without  her,  and  worship 
without  her,  but  we  cannot  remember  without  her.  How  cold 
is  all  history  how  lifeless  all  imager}’,  compared  to  that  which 
the  living  nation  writes,  and  the  uncorrupted  marble  bears ! 
how  many  pages  of  doubtful  record  might  we  not  often  spare, 
for  a few  stones  left  one  upon  another  ! The  ambition  of  the 
old  Babel  builders  was  well  directed  for  this  world  : there  are 
but  two  strong  conquerors  of  the  forgetfulness  of  men.  Poetry 
and  Architecture  ; and  the  latter  in  some  sort  includes  the 
former,  and  is  mightier  in  its  reality ; it  is  well  to  have,  not 
only  what  men  have  thought  and  felt,  but  what  their  hands 
have  handled,  and  their  strength  wrought,  and  their  eyes 
beheld,  all  the  days  of  their  life.  The  age  of  Homer  is  sur- 
rounded with  darkness,  his  very  personality  with  doubt.  Not 
so  that  of  Pericles  : and  the  day  is  coming  when  w’e  shall  con- 
fess, that  we  have  learned  more  of  Greece  out  of  the  crumbled 
fragments  of  her  sculpture  than  even  from  her  sweet  singers 
or  soldier  historians.  And  if  indeed  there  be  any  profit  in  our 
knowledge  of  the  past,  or  any  joy  in  the  thought  of  being  re- 
membered hereafter,  which  can  give  strength  to  present  exer- 
tion, or  patience  to  present  endurance,  there  are  two  duties 
respecting  national  architecture  whose  importance  it  is  impos- 
sible to  overrate  ; the  first,  to  render  the  architecture  of  the 


170 


TUJiJ  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


day  historical ; and,  the  second,  to  preserve,  as  the  most  pre- 
cious of  inheritances,  that  of  past  ages. 

III.  It  is  in  the  first  of  these  two  directions  that  Memory 
may  truly  be  said  to  be  the  Sixth  Lamp  of  Architecture  ; for 
it  is  in  becoming  memorial  or  monumental  that  a true  perfec- 
tion is  attained  by  civil  and  domestic  buildings  ; and  this  partly 
as  they  are,  with  such  a view,  built  in  a more  stable  manner, 
and  partly  as  their  decorations  are  consequently  animated  by  a 
metaphorical  or  historical  meaning. 

As  regards  domestic  buildings,  there  must  always  be  a cer- 
tain limitation  to  views  of  this  kind  in  the  power,  as  well  as  in 
the  hearts,  of  men  ; still  I cannot  but  think  it  an  evil  sign  of 
a people  when  their  houses  are  built  to  last  for  one  generation 
only.  There  is  a sanctity  in  a good  man’s  house  which  cannot 
be  renewed  in  every  tenement  that  rises  on  its  ruins : and  I 
believe  that  good  men  would  generally  feel  this  ; and  that 
having  spent  their  lives  happily  and  honorably,  they  would  be 
grieved  at  the  close  of  them  to  think  that  the  place  of  their 
earthly  abode,  which  had  seen,  and  seemed  almost  to  sympa- 
thise in  all  their  honor,  their  gladness,  or  their  suffering, — 
that  this,  with  all  the  record  it  bare  of  them,  and  all  of  material 
thmgs  that  they  had  loved  and  ruled  over,  and  set  the  stamp 
of  themselves  uj^on — was  to  be  swept  away,  as  soon  as  there 
was  room  made  for  them  in  the  gi’ave  ; that  no  respect  was  to 
be  shown  to  it,  no  affection  felt  for  it,  no  good  to  be  drawn 
from  it  by  their  children  ; that  though  there  was  a monument 
in  the  church,  there  was  no  warm  monument  in  the  heart  and 
house  to  them  ; that  all  that  they  ever  treasured  was  despised, 
and  the  places  that  had  sheltered  and  comforted  them  were 
dragged  down  to  the  dust.  I say  that  a good  man  would  fear 
this  ; and  that,  far  more,  a good  son,  a noble  descendant,  would 
fear  doing  it  to  his  father’s  house.  I say  that  if  men  lived  like 
men  indeed,  their  houses  would  be  temples — temples  which  v/e 
should  hardly  dare  to  injure,  and  in  which  it  would  make  us 
holy  to  be  permitted  to  live  ; and  there  must  be  a strange  dis- 
solution of  natural  affection,  a strange  unthankfulness  for  all 
that  homes  have  given  and  parents  taught,  a strange  conscious- 
ness that  we  have  been  unfaithful  to  our  fathers’  honor,  or  that 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


m 


our  own  lives  are  not  such  as  would  mate  our  dwellings  sacred 
to  our  children,  when  each  man  would  fain  build  to  himself, 
and  build  for  the  little  revolution  of  his  own  life  only.  And  I 
look  upon  those  pitiful  concretions  of  lime  and  clay  which 
spring  up  in  mildewed  forwardness  out  of  the  kneaded  fields 
about  our  capital — upon  those  thin,  tottering,  foundationless 
shells  of  splintered  wood  and  imitated  stone — upon  those 
gloomy  rows  of  formalised  minuteness,  alike  without  difference 
and  without  fellowship,  as  solitary  as  similar — not  merely  with 
the  careless  disgust  of  an  offended  eye,  not  merely  with  sor- 
row for  a desecrated  landscape,  but  with  a painful  foreboding 
that  the  roots  of  our  national  greatness  must  be  deeply  can- 
kered when  they  are  thus  loosel}^  struck  in  their  native  ground ; 
that  those  comfortless  and  unhonored  dwellings  are  the  signs 
of  a great  and  spreading  spirit  of  popular  discontent ; that 
they  mark  the  time  when  every  man’s  aim  is  to  be  in  some 
more  elevated  sphere  than  his  natural  one,  and  every  man’s 
past  life  is  his  habitual  scorn  ; wdien  men  build  in  the  hope  of 
leaving  the  places  they  have  built,  and  live  in  the  hope  of  for- 
getting the  years  that  they  have  lived  ; when  the  comfort,  the 
peace,  the  religion  of  home  have  ceased  to  be  felt ; and  the 
crowded  tenements  of  a struggling  and  restless  population  dif- 
fer only  from  the  tents  of  the  Arab  or  the  Gipsy  by  their  less 
healthy  openness  to  the  air  of  heaven,  and  less  happy  choice  of 
their  spot  of  earth ; by  their  sacrifice  of  liberty  without  the 
gain  of  rest,  and  of  stability  without  the  luxury  of  change. 

IV.  This  is  no  slight,  no  consequenceless  evil : it  is  omi- 
nous, infectious,  and  fecund  of  other  fault  and  misfortune. 
When  men  do  not  love  their  hearths,  nor  reverence  their 
thresholds,  it  is  a sign  that  they  have  dishonored  both,  and  that 
they  have  never  acknowledged  the  true  universality  of  that 
Christian  worship  which  was  indeed  to  supersede  the  idolatry, 
but  not  the  piety,  of  the  pagan.  Our  God  is  a household 
God,  as  well  as  a heavenly  one  ; He  has  an  altar  in  every 
man’s  dwelling  ; let  men  look  to  it  when  they  rend  it  lightly 
and  pour  out  its  ashes.  It  is  not  a question  of  mere  ocular 
delight,  it  is  no  question  of  intellectual  pride,  or  of  cultivated 
and  critical  fancy,  how,  and  with  what  aspect  of  durabilit^f 


172 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


and  of  completeness,  the  domestic  buildings  of  a nation  shall 
be  raised.  It  is  one  of  those  moral  duties,  not  with  more 
imi^unity  to  be  neglected  because  the  perception  of  them  de- 
pends on  a finely  toned  and  balanced  conscientiousness,  to 
build  our  dwellings  with  care,  and  patience,  and  fondness, 
and  diligent  completion,  and  with  a view  to  their  duration  at 
least  for  such  a period  as,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  national 
revolutions,  might  be  supposed  likely  to  extend  to  the  entire 
alteration  of  the  direction  of  local  interests.  This  at  the 
least  ; but  it  would  be  better  if,  in  every  possible  instance, 
men  built  their  own  houses  on  a scale  commensurate  rather 
with  their  condition  at  the  commencement,  than  their  attain- 
ments at  the  termination,  of  their  worldly  career ; and  built 
them  to  stand  as  long  as  human  work  at  its  strongest  can  be 
hoped  to  stand  ; recording  to  their  children  what  they  have 
been,  and  from  what,  if  so  it  had  been  permitted  them,  they 
had  risen.  And  when  houses  are  thus  built,  we  may  have 
that  true  domestic  architecture,  the  beginning  of  all  other, 
which  does  not  disdain  to  treat  with  respect  and  thoughtful- 
ness the  small  habitation  as  well  as  the  large,  and  which  in- 
vests  with  the  dignity  of  contented  manhood  the  narrowness 
of  worldly  circumstance. 

V.  I look  to  this  spirit  of  honorable,  proud,  peaceful  self- 
possession,  this  abiding  wisdom  of  contented  life,  as  probably 
one  of  the  chief  sources  of  great  intellectual  power  in  all  ages, 
and  beyond  dispute  as  the  very  primal  source  of  the  great 
architecture  of  old  Italy  and  France.  To  this  day,  the  interest 
of  their  fairest  cities  depends,  not  on  the  isolated  richness  of 
palaces,  but  on  the  cherished  and  exquisite  decoration  of 
even  the  smallest  tenements  of  their  proud  periods.  The 
most  elaborate  piece  of  architecture  in  Venice  is  a small  house 
at  the  head  of  the  Grand  Canal,  consisting  of  a ground  floor 
with  two  stories  above,  three  windows  in  the  first,  and  two  in 
the  second.  Many  of  the  most  exquisite  buildings  are  on 
the  narrower  canals,  and  of  no  larger  dimensions.  One  of 
the  most  interesting  pieces  of  fifteenth  century  architecture  in 
North  Italy,  is  a small  house  in  a back  street,  behind  the 
market-place  of  Vicenza  ; it  bears  date  1481,  and  the  motto, 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


173 


II.  n'est.  rose.  sans,  epine  ; it  has  also  only  a ground  floor  and 
two  stories,  with  three  windows  in  each,  separated  by  rich 
flower-work,  and  with  balconies,  supported,  the  central  one 
by  an  eagle  with  open  wings,  the  lateral  ones  by  winged 
grifiins  standing  on  cornucopia?.  The  idea  that  a house  must 
be  large  in  order  to  be  well  built,  is  altogether  of  modern 
growth,  and  is  parallel  with  the  idea,  that  no  picture  can  be 
historical,  except  of  a size  admitting  figures  larger  than  life. 

VI.  I would  have,  then,  our  ordinary  dwelling-houses  built 
to  last,  and  built  to  be  lovely  ; as  rich  and  full  of  pleasantness 
as  may  be,  within  and  without ; with  what  degree  of  likeness 
to  each  other  in  style  and  manner,  I will  say  presently,  under 
another  head  ; but,  at  all  events,  with  such  differences  as  might 
suit  and  express  each  man’s  character  and  occupation,  and 
partly  his  history.  This  right  over  the  house,  I conceive,  be- 
longs to  its  first  builder,  and  is  to  be  respected  by  his  children  •, 
and  it  would  be  well  that  blank  stones  should  be  left  in  places, 
to  be  inscribed  with  a summary  of  his  life  and  of  its  experi- 
ence, raising  thus  the  habitation  into  a kind  of  monument,  and 
developing,  into  more  systematic  instructiveness,  that  good 
custom  which  was  of  old  universal,  and  which  still  remains 
among  some  of  the  Swiss  and  Germans,  of  acknowledging  the 
grace  of  God’s  permission  to  build  and  possess  a quiet  resting- 
place,  in  such  sweet  words  as  may  well  close  our  speaking  of 
these  things.  I have  taken  them  from  the  front  of  a cottage 
lately  built  among  the  green  pastures  which  descend  from  the 
village  of  Grindelwald  to  the  lower  glacier  : — 

“ Mit  herzlicliem  Vertrauen 
Hat  Johannes  Mooter  und  Maria  Ruhi 
Dieses  Ilaus  hauen  lassen. 

Der  liebe  Gott  well  uns  bewahren 
Vor  allem  Ungliick  und  Gefahren, 

Und  es  in  Segen  lassen  stelin 

Auf  derReise  durch  diese  Jammerzeit 

Naoli  dem  himmliscben  Paradiese, 

Wo  alle  Fronamen  wohnen, 

Da  wil’d  Gott  sie  belohnen 
Mit  der  Friedenskrone 
Zu  alle  Ewigkeit.” 


174 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


VII.  In  public  buildings  the  historical  purpose  should  be 
still  more  definite.  It  is  one  of  the  advantages  of  Gothic 
architecture, — I use  the  word  Gothic  in  the  most  extended 
sense  as  broadly  opposed  to  classical, — that  it  admits  of  a rich- 
ness of  record  altogether  unlimited.  Its  minute  and  multi- 
tudinous sculptural  decorations  afford  means  of  expressing, 
either  symbolically  or  literally,  all  that  need  be  known  of  na- 
tional feeling  or  achievement.  More  decoration  will,  indeed, 
be  usually  required  than  can  take  so  elevated  a character  ; and 
much,  even  in  the  most  thoughtful  periods,  has  been  left  to 
the  freedom  of  fancy,  or  suffered  to  consist  of  mere  repetitions 
of  some  national  bearing  or  symbol.  It  is,  however,  generally 
unwise,  even  in  mere  surface  ornament,  to  surrender  the  power 
and  privilege  of  variety  which  the  spirit  of  Gothic  architecture 
admits  ; much  more  in  important  features — capitals  of  columns 
or  bosses,  and  string-courses,  as  of  course  in  all  confessed 
bas-reliefs.  Better  the  rudest  w^ork  that  tells  a stor}"  or  records 
a fact,  than  the  richest  without  meaning.  There  should  not 
be  a single  ornament  put  upon  great  civic  buildings,  without 
some  intellectual  intention.  Actual  representation  of  history 
has  in  modern  times  been  checked  by  a difficulty,  mean  in- 
deed, but  steadfast  : that  of  unmanageable  costume  ; never- 
theless, by  a sufficiently  bold  imaginative  treatment,  and  frank 
use  of  symbols,  all  such  obstacles  may  be  vanquished  ; not 
perhaps  in  the  degree  necessary  to  produce  sculpture  in  itself 
satisfactory,  but  at  all  events  so  as  to  enable  it  to  become  a 
grand  and  expressive  element  of  architectural  composition. 
Take,  for  example,  the  management  of  the  capitals  of  the  ducal 
palace  at  Venice.  History,  as  such,  was  indeed  entrusted  to 
the  painters  of  its  interior,  but  every  capital  of  its  arcades  was 
filled  with  meaning.  The  large  one,  the  corner  stone  of  the 
wdiole,  next  the  entrance,  was  devoted  to  the  symbolisation  of 
Abstract  Justice  ; above  it  is  a sculpture  of  the  Judgment  of 
Solomon,  remarkable  for  a beautiful  subjection  in  its  treat- 
ment to  its  decorative  purpose.  The  figures,  if  the  subject 
had  been  entirely  composed  of  them,  would  have  awkwardly 
interrupted  the  line  of  the  angle,  and  diminished  its  apparent 
strength  ; and  therefore  in  the  midst  of  them,  entirely  without 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


175 


relation  to  tliem,  and  indeed  actually  between  the  executioner 
and  interceding  mother,  there  rises  the  ribbed  trunk  of  a ina&*sy 
tree,  which  supports  and  continues  the  shaft  of  the  angle,  and 
whose  leaves  above  overshadow  and  enrich  the  whole.  The 
capital  below  bears  among  its  leafage  a throned  figure  of  Jus- 
tice, Trajan  doing  justice  to  the  widow,  Aristotle  “ die  die 
legge,”  and  one  or  two  other  subjects  now  unintelligible  from 
decay.  The  capitals  next  in  order  represent  the  virtues  and 
'sdces  in  succession,  as  preservative  or  destructive  of  national 
peace  and  power,  concluding  with  Faith,  with  the  inscription 
“Fides  optima  in  Deo  est.”  A figure  is  seen  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  capital,  worshipping  the  sun.  After  these,  one  or 
two  capitals  are  fancifully  decorated  with  birds  (Plate  V.),  and 
then  come  a series  representing,  first  the  various  fruits,  then 
tlie  national  costumes,  and  then  the  animals  of  the  various 
countries  subject  to  Venetian  rule. 

Vni.  Now,  not  to  speak  of  any  more  important  public 
building,  let  us  imagine  our  own  India  House  adorned  in  this 
way,  by  historical  or  symbolical  sculpture  : massively  built  in 
the  first  place  ; then  chased  with  bas-reliefs  of  our  Indian  bat- 
tles, and  fretted  with  carvings  of  Oriental  foliage,  or  inlaid  with 
Oriental  stones ; and  the  more  important  members  of  its  deco- 
ration composed  of  groups  of  Indian  life  and  landscape,  and 
prominently  expressing  the  phantasms  of  Hindoo  worship  in 
their  subjection  to  the  Cross.  Would  not  one  such  work  be 
better  than  a thousand  histories  ? If,  however,  we  have  not 
the  invention  necessary  for  such  efforts,  or  if,  which  is  proba- 
bly one  of  the  most  noble  excuses  we  can  offer  for  our  defi- 
ciency in  such  matters,  we  have  less  pleasure  in  talking  about 
ourselves,  even  in  marble,  than  the  Continental  nations,  at  least 
we  have  no  excuse  for  any  want  of  care  in  the  points  which  in- 
sure the  building’s  endurance.  And  as  this  question  is  one  of 
great  interest  in  its  relations  to  the  choice  of  various  modes  of 
decoration,  it  will  be  necessary  to  enter  into  it  at  some  length. 

IX.  The  benevolent  regards  and  purposes  of  men  in  masses 
seldom  can  be  supposed  to  extend  beyond  their  own  genera- 
tion. They  may  look  to  posterity  as  an  audience,  may  hope 
for  its  attention,  and  labor  for  its  praise  : they  may  trust  to 


m 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


{ts  recognition  of  unacknowledged  merit,  and  demand  its  jus 
tice  for  contemporary  wrong.  But  all  this  is  mere  selfishness, 
and  does  not  involve  the  slightest  regard  to,  or  consideration 
of,  the  interest  of  those  by  whose  numbers  we  would  fain  swell 
the  circle  of  our  flatterers,  and  by  whose  authority  we  would 
gladly  support  our  presently  disputed  claims.  The  idea  of 
self-denial  for  the  sake  of  posterity,  of  practising  present  econ- 
omy for  the  sake  of  debtors  yet  unborn,  of  planting  forests 
that  our  descendants  may  live  under  their  shade,  or  of  raising 
cities  for  future  nations  to  inhabit,  never,  I suppose,  efficiently 
takes  place  among  publicly  recognised  motives  of  exertion. 
Yet  these  are  not  the  less  our  duties  ; nor  is  our  part  fitly 
sustained  upon  the  earth,  unless  the  range  of  our  intended 
and  deliberate  usefulness  include  not  only  the  companions, 
but  the  successors,  of  our  pilgrimage.  God  has  lent  us  the 
earth  for  our  life  ; it  is  a great  entail.  It  belongs  as  much  to 
those  who  are  to  come  after  us,  and  whose  names  are  already 
written  in  the  book  of  creation,  as  to  us  ; and  we  have  no 
right,  by  anything  that  we  do  or  neglect,  to  involve  them  in 
unnecessary  penalties,  or  deprive  them  of  benefits  which  it 
was  in  our  power  to  bequeath.  And  this  the  more,  because  it 
is  one  of  the  appointed  conditions  of  the  labor  of  men  that,  in 
proportion  to  the  time  between  the  seed-sowing  and  the  har- 
vest, is  the  fulness  of  the  fruit ; and  that  generally,  therefore, 
the  farther  off  we  place  our  aim,  and  the  less  we  desire  to  be 
ourselves  the  witnesses  of  what  we  have  labored  for,  the  more 
wide  and  rich  will  be  the  measure  of  our  success.  Men  can- 
not benefit  those  that  are  with  them  as  they  can  benefit  those 
who  come  after  them  ; and  of  all  the  pulpits  from  which  human 
voice  is  ever  sent  forth,  there  is  none  from  which  it  reaches  so 
far  as  from  the  grave. 

X.  Nor  is  there,  indeed,  any  present  loss,  in  such  respect, 
for  futurity.  Every  human  action  gains  in  honor,  in  grace,  in 
all  true  magnificence,  by  its  regard  to  things  that  are  to  come. 
It  is  the  far  sight,  the  quiet  and  confident  patience,  that,  aboA^e 
all  other  attributes,  separate  man  from  man,  and  near  him  to 
his  Maker  ; and  there  is  no  action  nor  art,  whose  majesty  we 
may  not  measure  by  this  test  Therefore,  when  we  build,  let 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


m 


AS  think  that  wc  build  for  ever.  Let  it  not  be  for  present  de- 
light, nor  for  present  use  alone  ; let  it  be  such  work  as  our 
descendants  will  thank  us  ior,  and  let  us  think,  as  we  lay-  stone 
on  stone,  that  a time  is  to  come  when  those  stones  will  be  held 
sacred  because  our  hands  have  touched  them,  and  that  men 
will  say  as  they  look  upon  the  labor  and  wrought  substance  of 
them,  “ See ! this  our  fathers  did  for  us.”  For,  indeed,  the 
greatest  glory  of  a building  is  not  in  its  stones,  or  in  its  gold. 
Its  glory  is  in  its  Age,  and  in  that  deep  sense  of  voicefulness, 
of  stern  watching,  of  mysterious  sympathy,  nay,  even  of  ap- 
proval or  condemnation,  which  w^e  feel  in  walls  that  have  long- 
been  washed  by  the  passing  waves  of  humanity.  It  is  in  their 
lasting  witness  against  men,  in  their  quiet  contrast  with  the 
transitional  character  of  all  things,  in  the  strength  which, 
through  the  lapse  of  seasons  and  times,  and  the  decline  and 
birth  of  dynasties,  and  the  changing  of  the  face  of  the  earth, 
and  of  the  limits  of  the  sea,  maintains  its  sculptured  shapeli- 
ness for  a time  insuperable,  connects  forgotten  and  following 
ages  with  each  other,  and  half  constitutes  the  identity,  as  it 
concentrates  the  sympathy,  of  nations  ; it  is  in  that  golden 
stain  of  time,  that  we  are  to  look  for  the  real  light,  and  color, 
and  preciousness  of  architecture  ; and  it  is  not  until  a build- 
ing has  assumed  this  character,  till  it  has  been  entrusted  with 
the  fame,  and  hallowed  by  the  deeds  of  men,  till  its  walls  have 
been  witnesses  of  suffering,  and  its  pillars  rise  out  of  the  shad- 
ows of  death,  that  its  existence,  more  lasting  as  it  is  than  that 
of  the  natural  objects  of  the  world  around  it,  can  be  gifted 
with  even  so  much  as  these  possess  of  language  and  of  life. 

XI.  For  that  period,  then,  we  must  build  ; not,  indeed,  re- 
fusing to  ourselves  the  delight  of  present  completion,  nor  hesi- 
.tating  to  follow  such  portions  of  character  as  may  depend 
upon  delicacy  of  execution  to  the  highest  perfection  of  which 
they  are  capable,  even  although  we  may  know  that  in  the 
course  of  years  such  details  must  perish  ; but  taking  care  that 
for  work  of  this  kind  we  sacrifice  no  enduring  quality,  and 
that  the  building  shall  not  depend  for  its  impressiveness  upon 
anything  that  is  perishable.  This  would,  indeed,  be  the  law 
of  good  composition  under  any  circumstances,  the  arrange- 
12 


178 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


inent  of  the  larger  masses  being  always  a matter  of  greater 
importance  than  the  treatment  of  the  smaller ; but  in  archi- 
tecture there  is  much  in  that  very  treatment  which  is  skilful 
or  otherwise  in  proportion  to  its  just  regard  to  the  probable 
effects  of  time  : and  (which  is  still  more  to  be  considered) 
there  is  a beauty  in  those  effects  themselves,  which  nothing 
else  can  replace,  and  which  it  is  our  wisdom  to  consult  and 
to  desire.  For  though,  hitherto,  we  have  been  speaking  of 
the  sentiment  of  age  only,  there  is  an  actual  beauty  in  the 
marks  of  it,  such  and  so  great  as  to  have  become  not  unfre- 
quently  the  subject  of  especial  choice  among  certain  schools 
of  art,  and  to  have  impressed  upon  those  schools  the  charac- 
ter usually  and  loosely  expressed  by  the  term  “ picturesque.” 
It  is  of  some  importance  to  our  present  purpose  to  determine 
the  true  meaning  of  this  expression,  as  it  is  now  generally 
used  ; for  there  is  a principle  to  be  developed  from  that  use 
which,  while  it  has  occultly  been  the  ground  of  much  that  is 
true  and  just  in  our  judgment  of  art,  has  never  been  so  far 
understood  as  to  become  definitely  serviceable.  Probably 
no  word  in  the  language  (exclusive  of  theological  expres- 
sions), has  been  the  subject  of  so  frequent  or  so  prolonged 
dispute  ; yet  none  remained  more  vague  in  their  acceptance, 
and  it  seems  to  me  to  be  a matter  of  no  small  interest  to  in- 
vestigate the  essence  of  that  idea  which  all  feel,  and  (to  ap- 
pearance) with  respect  to  similar  things,  and  yet  which  every 
attempt  to  define  has,  as  I believe,  ended  either  in  mere  enu- 
meration of  the  effects  and  objects  to  which  the  term  has  been 
attached,  or  else  in  attempts  at  abstraction  more  palpably 
nugatory  than  anj^  which  have  disgraced  metaphysical  investi- 
gation on  other  subjects.  A recent  critic  on  Art,  for  instance, 
has  gravely  advanced  the  theory  that  the  essence  of  the  pictu- 
resque consists  in  the  expression  of  “universal  decay.”  It 
would  be  curious  to  see  the  result  of  an  attempt  to  illustrate 
this  idea  of  the  picturesque,  in  a painting  of  dead  flowers 
and  decayed  fruit,  and  equally  curious  to  trace  the  steps  of 
any  reasoning  ■which,  on  such  a theory,  should  account  for  the 
picturesqueness  of  an  ass  colt  as  opposed  to  a horse  foal.  But 
there  is  much  excuse  for  even  the  most  utter  failure  in  rea- 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


179 


soilings  of  this  kind,  since  the  subject  is,  indeed,  one  of  the 
most  obscure  of  all  that  may  legitimately  be  submitted  to 
human  reason  ; and  the  idea  is  itself  so  varied  in  the  minds 
of  different  men,  according  to  their  subjects  of  study,  that  no 
definition  can  be  expected  to  embrace  more  than  a certain 
number  of  its  infinitely  multiplied  forms. 

XII.  That  peculiar  character,  however,  which  separates  the 
picturesque  from  the  characters  of  subject  belonging  to  the 
higher  walks  of  art  (and  this  is  all  that  is  necessary  for  our 
present  purpose  to  define),  may  be  shortly  and  decisively  ex- 
pressed. Picturesqueness,  in  this  sense,  is  Faradtical  Sublim- 
ity. Of  course  all  sublimity,  as  well  as  all  beauty,  is,  in  the 
simple  etymological  sense,  picturesque,  that  is  to  say,  fit  to 
become  the  subject  of  a picture  ; and  all  sublimity  is,  even  in 
the  peculiar  sense  which  I am  endeavoring  to  develope,  pict- 
uresque, as  opposed  to  beauty  ; that  is  to  say,  there  is  more 
picturesqueness  in  the  subject  of  Michael  Angelo  than  of  Pe- 
rugino,  in  proportion  to  the  prevalence  of  the  sublime  element 
over  the  beautiful.  But  that  character,  of  which  the  extreme 
pursuit  is  generally  admitted  to  be  degrading  to  art,  is  para- 
sitical sublimity  ; i.e.,  a sublimity  dependent  on  the  accidents, 
or  on  the  least  essential  characters,  of  the  objects  to  which  it 
belongs  ; and  the  picturesque  is  developed  distinctively  exactly 
in  proportion  to  the  distance  from  the  centre  of  thought  of  those 
points  of  character  in  which  the  sublimity  is  found.  Two  ideas, 
therefore,  are  essential  to  picturesqueness, — the  first,  that  of 
sublimity  (for  pure  beauty  is  not  picturesque  at  all,  and  be- 
comes so  only  as  the  sublime  element  mixes  with  it),  and  the 
second,  the  subordinate  or  parasitical  position  of  that  sublim- 
ity. Of  course,  therefore,  wdiatever  characters  of  line  or  shade 
or  expression  are  productive  of  sublimity,  will  become  pro- 
ductive of  picturesqueness  ; what  these  characters  are  I shall 
endeavor  hereafter  to  show  at  length  ; but,  among  those  which 
are  generally  acknowledged,  I may  name  angular  and  broken 
lines,  vigorous  oppositions  of  light  and  shadow,  and  grave, 
deep,  or  boldly  contrasted  color  ; and  all  these  are  in  a still 
higher  degree  effective,  when,  by  resemblance  or  association, 
they  remind  us  of  objects  on  which  a true  and  essential  suB 


180 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


limity  exists,  as  of  rocks  or  mountains,  or  stormy  clouds  ol 
waves.  Now  if  these  characters,  or  any  others  of  a higher  and 
more  abstract  sublimity,  be  found  in  the  very  heart  and  sub- 
stance of  what  we  contemplate,  as  the  sublimity  of  Michael 
Angelo  depends  on  the  expression  of  mental  character  in  his 
figures  far  more  than  even  on  the  noble  lines  of  their  arrange- 
ment, the  art  which  represents  such  characters  cannot  be 
proj^erly  called  picturesque  : but,  if  they  be  found  in  the  ac- 
cidental or  external  qualities,  the  distinctive  picturesque  will 
be  the  result. 

Xin.  Thus,  in  the  treatment  of  the  features  of  the  human 
face  by  Francia  or  Angelico,  the  shadows  are  employed  only 
to  make  the  contours  of  the  features  thoroughly  felt  ; and  to 
those  features  themselves  the  mind  of  the  observer  is  exclu- 
sively directed  (that  is  to  say,  to  the  essential  characters  of 
the  thing  represented).  All  power  and  all  sublimity  rest  on 
these  ; the  shadows  are  used  only  for  the  sake  of  the  features. 
On  the  contrary,  by  Rembrandt,  Salvator,  or  Caravaggio,  the 
features  are  used  for  the  sake  of  the  shadoius  ; and  the  atten- 
tion is  directed,  and  the  power  of  the  painter  addressed  to 
characters  of  accidental  light  and  shade  cast  across  or  around 
those  features.  In  the  case  of  Rembrandt  there  is  often  an 
essential  sublimity  in  invention  and  expression  besides,  and 
always  a high  degree  of  it  in  the  light  and  shade  itself  ; but 
it  is  for  the  most  part  parasitical  or  engrafted  sublimity  as 
regards  the  subject  of  the  painting,  and,  just  so  far,  pictu- 
resque. 

XIV.  Again,  in  the  management  of  the  sculptures  of  the 
Parthenon,  shadow  is  frequently  employed  as  a dark  field  on 
which  the  forms  are  drawn.  This  is-  visibly  the  case  in  the 
metopes,  and  must  have  been  nearly  as  much  so  in  the  pedi- 
ment. But  the  use  of  that  shadow  is  entirely  to  show  the 
confines  of  the  figures  ; and  it  is  to  their  lines,  and  not  to  the 
shapes  of  the  shadows  behind  them,  that  the  art  and  the  eye 
are  addressed.  The  figures  themselves  are  conceived  as  much 
as  possible  in  full  light,  aided  by  bright  reflections  ; they  are. 
drawn  exactly  as,  on  vases,  white  flgures  on  a dark  ground  : 
and  the  sculptors  have  dispensed  with,  or  even  struggled  to 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


181 


avoid,  all  shadows  which  were  not  absolutely  necessar}"  to  the 
explaining  of  the  form.  On  the  contrary,  in  Gothic  sculpture, 
the  shadow  becomes  itself  a subject  of  thought.  It  is  con- 
sidered as  a dark  color,  to  be  arranged  in  certain  agreeable 
masses  ; the  figures  are  very  frequently  made  even  subordinate 
to  the  placing  of  its  divisions  : and  their  costume  is  enriched 
at  the  expense  of  the  forms  underneath,  in  order  to  increase 
the  complexity  and  variety  of  the  points  of  shade.  There  are 
thus,  both  in  sculpture  and  painting,  two,  in  some  sort,  oppo- 
site schools,  of  which  the  one  follows  for  its  subject  the  essen- 
tial forms  of  things,  and  the  other  the  accidental  lights  and 
shades  upon  them.  There  are  various  degrees  of  their  con- 
trariety : middle  steps,  as  in  the  works  of  Correggio,  and  all 
degrees  of  nobility  and  of  degradation  in  the  several  manners : 
but  the  one  is  always  recognised  as  the  pure,  and  the  other 
as  the  picturesque  school.  Portions  of  picturesque  treatment 
will  be  found  in  Greek  work,  and  of  pure  and  unpicturesque 
in  Gothic  ; and  in  both  there  are  countless  instances,  as  pre- 
eminently in  the  works  of  Michael  Angelo,  in  which  shadows 
become  valuable  as  media  of  expression,  and  therefore  take 
rank  among  essential  characteristics.  Into  these  multitudi- 
nous distinctions  and  exceptions  I cannot  now  enter,  desiring 
only  to  prove  the  broad  applicabihty  of  the  general  definition. 

XV.  Again,  the  distinction  will  be  found  to  exist,  not  only 
between  forms  and  shades  as  subjects  of  choice,  but  between 
essential  and  inessential  forms.  One  of  the  chief  distinctions 
between  the  dramatic  and  picturesque  schools  of  sculpture  is 
found  in  the  treatment  of  the  hair.  By  the  artists  of  the  time 
of  Pericles  it  was  considered  as  an  excrescence,^®  indicated  by 
few  and  rude  lines,  and  subordinated  in  every  particular  to 
the  principality  of  the  features  and  person.  How  completely 
this  was  an  artistical,  not  a national  idea,  it  is  unnecessary  to 
prove.  We  need  but  remember  the  employment  of  the  Lace- 
daemonians, reported  by  the  Persian  spy  on  the  evening  be- 
fore the  battle  of  Thermopylae,  or  glance  at  any  Homeric 
description  of  ideal  form,  to  see  how  purely  sculpturesque  was 
the  law  which  reduced  the  markings  of  the  hair,  lest,  under 
the  necessary  disadvantages  of  material,  they  should  interfere 


182 


TILE  LAME  OE'  MEMO  11 Y. 


with  the  distinctness  of  tlie  personal  forms.  On  the  contrary, 
in  later  sculpture,  the  hair  receives  almost  the  principal  caro 
of  the  workman  ; and  while  the  features  and  limbs  are  clum- 
sily and  bluntly  executed,  the  hair  is  curled  and  twisted,  cut 
into  bold  and  shadowy  projections,  and  arranged  in  masses 
elaborately  ornamental  : there  is  true  sublimity  in  the  lines 
and  the  chiaroscuro  of  these  masses,  but  it  is,  as  regards  the 
creature  represented,  parasitical,  and  therefore  picturesque. 
In  the  same  sense  we  may  understand  the  application  of  the 
term  to  modern  animal  painting,  distinguished  as  it  has  been 
by  peculiar  attention  to  the  colors,  lustre,  and  texture  of 
skin  ; nor  is  it  in  art  alone  that  the  definition  will  hold.  In 
animals  themselves,  when  their  sublimity  depends  upon  their 
muscular  forms  or  motions,  or  necessary  and  principal  attri- 
l:)utes,  as  perhaps  more  than  all  others  in  the  horse,  we  do 
not  call  them  picturesque,  but  consider  them  as  peculiarly  fit 
to  be  associated  with  pure  historical  subject.  Exactly  in 
proportion  as  their  character  of  sublimity  passes  into  excres- 
cences ; — into  mane  and  beard  as  in  the  lion,  into  horns  as  in 
the  stag,  into  shaggy  hide  as  in  the  instance  above  given  of 
the  ass  colt,  into  variegation  as  in  the  zebra,  or  into  plumage, 
— they  become  picturesque,  and  are  so  in  art  exactly  in  pro- 
portion to  the  prominence  of  these  excrescential  characters. 
It  may  often  be  most  expedient  that  they  should  be  promi- 
nent ; often  there  is  in  them  the  highest  degree  of  majesty, 
as  in  those  of  the  leopard  and  boar ; and  in  the  hands  of 
men  like  Tintoret  and  Bubens,  such  attributes  become  means 
of  deepening  the  very  highest  and  most  ideal  impressions. 
But  the  picturesque  direction  of  their  thoughts  is  always  dis- 
tinctly recognizable,  as  clinging  to  the  surface,  to  the  less 
essential  character,  and  as  developing  out  of  this  a sublimity 
dififerent  from  that  of  the  creature  itself ; a sublimity  which 
is,  in  a sort,  common  to  all  the  objects  of  creation,  and  the 
same  in  its  constituent  elements,  wdiether  it  be  sought  in  the 
clefts  and  folds  of  shaggy  hair,  or  in  the  chasms  and  rents  of 
rocks,  or  in  the  hanging  of  thickets  or  hill  sides,  or  in  the 
alternations  of  gaiety  and  gloom  in  the  variegation  of  the 
shell,  the  plume,  or  the  cloud. 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


183 


XYI.  Now,  to  return  to  our  immediate  subject,  it  so  liajj' 
pens  that,  in  architecture,  the  superinduced  and  accidental 
beauty  is  most  commonly  inconsistent  with  the  preservation 
of  original  character,  and  the  picturesque  is  therefore  sought 
in  ruin,  and  supposed  to  consist  in  decay.  Whereas,  even 
when  so  sought,  it  consists  in  the  mere  sublimity  of  the 
rents,  or  fractures,  or  stains,  or  vegetation,  which  assimilate 
the  architecture  with  the  work  of  Nature,  and  bestow  upon  it 
those  circumstances  of  color  and  form  which  are  universally 
beloved  by  the  eye  of  man.  So  far  as  this  is  done,  to  the  ex- 
tinction of  the  true  characters  of  the  architecture,  it  is  pict- 
uresque, and  the  artist  who  looks  to  the  stem  of  the  ivy  in- 
stead of  the  shaft  of  the  pillar,  is  carrying  out  in  more  daring 
freedom  the  debased  sculptor’s  choice  of  the  hair  instead  of  the 
countenance.  But  so  far  as  it  can  be  rendered  consistent 
with  the  inherent  character,  the  picturesque  or  extraneous 
sublimity  of  architecture  has  just  this  of  nobler  function  in  it 
than  that  of  any  other  object  whatsoever,  that  it  is  an  expo- 
nent of  age,  of  that  in  which,  as  has  been  said,  the  greatest 
glory  of  a building  consists  ; and,  therefore,  the  external 
signs  of  this  glory,  having  power  and  purpose  greater  than 
any  belonging  to  their  mere  sensible  beauty,  may  be  consid- 
ered as  taking  rank  among  pure  and  essential  characters  ; so 
essential  to  my  mind,  that  I think  a building  cannot  be  con- 
sidered as  in  its  prime  until  four  or  five  centuries  have  passed 
over  it ; and  that  the  entire  choice  and  arrangement  of  its 
details  should  have  reference  to  their  appearance  after  that 
period,  so  that  none  should  be  admitted  which  would  suffer 
material  injury  either  by  the  weather-staining,  or  the  me- 
chanical degradation  which  the  lapse  of  such  a period  would 
necessitate. 

XVn.  It  is  not  my  purpose  to  enter  into  any  of  the  ques- 
tions which  the  application  of  this  principle  involves.  They 
are  of  too  great  interest  and  complexity  to  be  even  touched 
upon  within  my  present  limits,  but  this  is  broadly  to  be  no- 
ticed, that  those  styles  of  architecture  which  are  picturesque 
in  the  sense  above  explained  with  respect  to  sculpture,  that 
is  to  say,  whose  decoration  depends  on  the  arrangement  of 


1S4 


TllK  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


points  of  shade  rather  than  on  purity  of  outline,  do  not  suffer, 
but  commonly  gain  in  richness  of  effect  when  their  details 
are  partly  worn  away  ; hence  such  styles,  pre-eminently  that 
of  French  Gothic,  should  always  be  adopted  when  the  mate- 
rials to  be  employed  are  liable  to  degradation,  as  biick,  sand- 
stone, or  soft  limestone  ; and  styles  in  any  degree  dependent 
on  purity  of  line,  as  the  Italian  Gothic,  must  be  practised  al- 
together in  hard  and  undecomposing  materials,  granite  ser- 
pentine, or  crystalline  marbles.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that 
the  nature  of  the  accessible  materials  influenced  the  forma- 
tion of  both  styles  ; and  it  should  still  more  authoritatively 
determine  our  choice  of  either. 

XVin.  It  does  not  belong  to  my  present  plan  to  consider 
at  length  the  second  head  of  duty  of  which  I have  above 
spoken ; the  preservation  of  the  architecture  we  possess  : but 
a few  words  may  be  forgiven,  as  especially  necessaiy  in  mod- 
ern times.  Neither  by  the  public,  nor  by  those  who  have  the 
care  of  public  monuments,  is  the  true  meaning  of  the  word 
vestoi'ation  understood.  It  means  the  most  total  destruction 
which  a building  can  suffer  : a destruction  out  of  which  no 
remnants  can  be  gathered;  a destruction  accompanied  with 
false  description  of  the  thing  destroyed.  Do  not  let  us  deceive 
ourselves  in  this  important  matter  ; it  is  impossible,  as  impos- 
sible as  to  raise  the  dead,  to  restore  anything  that  has  ever 
been  great  or  beautiful  in  architecture.  That  which  I have 
above  insisted  upon  as  the  life  of  the  whole,  that  spirit  which 
is  given  only  by  the  hand  and  eye  of  the  workman,  never  can 
be  recalled.  Another  spirit  may  be  given  by  another  time, 
and  it  is  then  a new  building  ; but  the  spirit  of  the  dead 
workman  cannot  be  summoned  up,  and  commanded  to  direct 
other  hands,  and  other  thoughts.  And  as  for  direct  and  simple 
copying,  it  is  palpably  impossible.  What  coj^ying  can  there 
be  of  surfaces  that  have  been  worn  half  an  inch  down  ? The 
whole  finish  of  the  work  was  in  the  half  inch  that  is  gone  ; if 
you  attempt  to  restore  that  finish,  you  do  it  conjecturally  ; if 
you  copy  what  is  left,  granting  fidelity  to  be  possible  (and 
what  care,  or  watchfuhiess,  or  cost  can  secure  it  ?),  how  is  the 
new  work  better  than  "^he  old  ? There  was  yet  in  the  old 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


185 


some  life,  some  mysterious  suggestion  of  what  it  had  been, 
and  of  what  it  had  lost  ; some  sweetness  in  the  gentle  lines 
which  rain  and  sun  had  wrought.  There  can  be  none  in  the 
brute  hardness  of  the  new  carving.  Look  at  the  animals  which 
I have  given  in  Plate  14,  as  an  instance  of  living  work,  and 
suppose  the  markings  of  the  scales  and  hair  once  worn  away, 
or  the  wrinkles  of  the  brows,  and  who  shall  ever  restore 
them  ? The  first  step  to  restoration  (I  have  seen  it,  and  that 
again  and  again,  seen  it  on  the  Baptistery  of  Pisa,  seen  it  on 
the  Casa  d’  Oro  at  Venice,  seen  it  on  the  Cathedral  of  Lisieux), 
is  to  dash  the  old  work  to  pieces  ; the  second  is  usually  to 
put  up  the  cheapest  and  basest  imitation  which  can  escape  de- 
tection, but  in  all  cases,  however  careful,  and  however  labored, 
an  imitation  still,  a cold  model  of  such  parts  as  can  be  modelled, 
with  conjectural  supplements  ; and  my  experience  has  as  yet 
furnished  me  with  only  one  instance,  that  of  the  Palais  de 
Justice  at  Rouen,  in  which  even  this,  the  utmost  degree  of 
fidelity  which  is  possible,  has  been  attained  or  even  attempted. 

XIX.  Do  not  let  us  talk  then  of  restoration.  The  thing  is 
a Lie  from  beginning  to  end.  You  may  make  a model  of  a 
building  as  you  may  of  a corpse,  and  your  model  may  have 
the  shell  of  the  old  walls  within  it  as  your  cast  might  have  the 
skeleton,  with  what  advantage  I neither  see  nor  care  ; but  the 
old  building  is  destroyed,  and  that  more  totally  and  mercilessly 
than  if  it  had  sunk  into  a heap  of  dust,  or  melted  into  a mass 
of  clay  : more  has  been  gleaned  out  of  desolated  Nineveh  than 
ever  will  be  out  of  re-built  Milan.  But,  it  is  said,  there  may 
come  a necessity  for  restoration  ! Granted.  Look  the  neces- 
sity full  in  the  face,  and  understand  it  on  its  own  terms.  It  is 
a necessity  for  destruction.  Accept  it  as  such,  pull  the  build- 
ing down,  throw  its  stones  into  neglected  corners,  make  ballast 
of  them,  or  mortar,  if  you  will  ; but  do  it  honestly,  and  do  not 
set  up  a Lie  in  their  place.  And  look  that  necessity  in  the  face 
before  it  comes,  and  you  may  prevent  it.  The  principle  of 
modern  times  (a  principle  which  I believe,  at  least  in  France, 
to  be  systematically  acted  on  by  the  masons,  in  order  to  find 
themselves  work,  as  the  abbey  of  St.  Ouen  was  pulled  down  by 
the  magistrates  of  the  town  by  v/ay  of  giving  work  to  some 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


1 80 

vagrants,)  is  to  neglect  buildings  first,  and  restore  them  after- 
wards. Take  proper  care  of  your  monuments,  and  you  will 
not  need  to  restore  them.  A few  sheets  of  lead  jmt  in  time 
upon  the  roof,  a few  dead  leaves  and  sticks  swept  in  time  out 
of  a water-course,  will  save  both  roof  and  walls  from  ruin. 
Watch  an  old  building  with  an  anxious  care  ; guard  it  as  best 
you  may,  and  at  any  cost  from  every  influence  of  dilapidation. 
Count  its  stones  as  you  would  jewels  of  a crown  ; set  watches 
about  it  as  if  at  the  gates  of  a besieged  city  ; bind  it  together 
with  iron  where  it  loosens ; sta}^  it  with  timber  where  it  de- 
clines ; do  not  care  about  the  unsightliness  of  the  aid  ; better 
a crutch  than  a lost  limb  ; and  do  this  tenderly,  and  reverent!}^, 
and  continually,  and  many  a generation  will  still  be  born  and 
pass  away  beneath  its  shadow.  Its  evil  day  must  come  at  last ; 
but  let  it  come  declaredly  and  openly,  and  let  no  dishonoring 
and  false  substitute  deprive  it  of  the  funeral  offices  of  memoiy. 

XX.  Of  more  wanton  or  ignorant  ravage  it  is  vain  to  speak ; 
my  words  will  not  reach  those  who  commit  them,  and  ^^et,  be 
it  heard  or  not,  I must  not  leave  the  truth  unstated,  that  it  is 
again  no  question  of  expediency  or  feeling  whether  we  shall 
preserve  the  buildings  of  past  times  or  not.  We  have  no  right 
lohatever  to  touch  them.  They  are  not  ours.  They  belong 
partly  to  those  who  built  them,  and  partly  to  all  the  genera- 
tions of  mankind  who  are  to  follow  us.  The  dead  have  still 
their  right  in  them  : that  which  they  labored  for,  the  praise  of 
achievement  or  the  expression  of  religious  feeling,  or  whatso- 
ever else  it  might  be  which  in  those  buildings  they  intended  to 
be  permanent,  we  have  no  right  to  obliterate.  What  we  have 
ourselves  built,  w^e  are  at  liberty  to  throw  down  ; but  what 
other  men  gave  their  strength,  and  wealth,  and  life  to  accom- 
plish, their  right  over  does  not  pass  away  with  their  death  ; 
still  less  is  the  right  to  the  use  of  what  they  have  left  vested 
in  us  only.  It  belongs  to  all  their  successors.  It  may  here- 
after be  a subject  of  sorrow,  or  a cause  of  injury,  to  mill- 
ions, that  we  have  consulted  our  present  convenience  by  cast- 
ing down  such  buildings  as  we  choose  to  dispense  with.  That 
sorrow,  that  loss  we  have  no  right  to  inflict.  Did  the  cathe- 
dral of  Avranches  belong  to  the  mob  who  destroyed  it,  any 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 


187 


more  than  it  did  to  us,  who  walk  in  sorrow  to  and  fro  over  its 
foundation  ? Neither  does  any  building  whatever  belong  to 
those  mobs  who  do  violence  to  it.  For  a mob  it  is,  and  must 
be  always ; it  matters  not  whether  enraged,  or  in  deliberate 
folly  ; whether  countless,  or  sitting  in  committees  ; the  people 
who  destroy  anything  causelessly  are  a mob,  and  Architecture 
is  always  destroyed  causelessly.  A fair  building  is  necessarily 
worth  the  ground  it  stands  upon,  and  will  be  so  until  central 
Africa  and  America  shall  have  become  as  populous  as  Middle- 
sex ; nor  is  any  cause  whatever  valid  as  a ground  for  its  de- 
struction. If  ever  valid,  certainly  not  now  when  the  place 
both  of  the  past  and  future  is  too  much  usurped  in  oui’  minds 
by  the  restless  and  discontented  present.  The  very  quietness 
of  nature  is  gradually  withdrawn  from  us  ; thousands  who 
once  in  their  necessarily  prolonged  travel  were  subjected  to 
an  influence,  from  the  silent  sky  and  slumbering  fields,  more 
effectual  than  known  or  confessed,  now  bear  with  them  even 
there  the  ceaseless  fever  of  their  life  ; and  along  the  iron  veins 
that  traverse  the  frame  of  our  country,  beat  and  flow  the  fiery 
pulses  of  its  exertions,  hotter  and  faster  every  hour.  All 
vitality  is  concentrated  through  those  throbbing  arteries  into 
the  central  cities ; the  country  is  passed  over  like  a green  sea 
by  narrow  bridges,  and  we  are  thrown  back  in  continually 
closer  crowds  upon  the  city  gates.  The  only  influence  which 
can  in  any  wise  there  take  the  place  of  that  of  the  woods  and 
fields,  is  the  power  of  ancient  Architecture.  Do  not  part  with 
it  for  the  sake  of  the  formal  square,  or  of  the  fenced  and 
planted  walk,  nor  of  the  goodly  street  nor  opened  quay.  The 
pride  of  a city  is  not  in  these.  Leave  them  to  the  crowd  ; 
but  remember  that  there  will  surely  be  some  within  the  cir- 
cuit of  the  disquieted  walls  who  would  ask  for  some  other 
‘■spots  than  these  wherein  to  walk  ; for  some  other  forms  to 
meet  their  sight  familiarly  ; like  him  who  sat  so  often  where 
the  sun  struck  from  the  west,  to  watch  the  lines  of  the  dome 
of  Florence  drawn  on  the  deep  sky,  o-r  like  those,  his  Hosts, 
who  could  bear  daily  to  behold,  from  their  palace  chambers, 
the  places  where  their  fathers  lay  at  rest,  at  the  meeting  of 
the  dark  streets  of  Verona. 


188 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

THE  LAIMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 

I.  It  has  been  my  endeavor  to  show  in  the  preceding  pages 
how  every  form  of  noble  architecture  is  in  some  sort  the 
embodiment  of  the  Polity,  Life,  History,  and  Religious  Faith 
of  nations.  Once  or  twice  in  doing  this,  I have  named  a 
principle  to  which  I would  now  assign  a definite  place  among 
those  which  direct  that  embodiment ; the  last  place,  not  only 
as  that  to  which  its  own  humility  would  incline,  but  rather  as 
belonging  to  it  in  the  aspect  of  the  crowning  grace  of  all  the 
rest ; that  principle,  I mean,  to  which  Polity  owes  its  stabil- 
ity, Life  its  happiness.  Faith  its  acceptance.  Creation  its  con- 
tinuance, — Obedience. 

Nor  is  it  the  least  among  the  sources  of  more  serious  satis- 
faction which  I have  found  in  the  pursuit  of  a subject  that  at 
first  appeared  to  bear  but  slightly  on  the  grave  interests  of 
mankind,  that  the  conditions  of  material  perfection  which  it 
leads  me  in  conclusion  to  consider,  furnish  a strange  proof 
how  false  is  the  conception,  how  frantic  the  pursuit,  of  that 
treacherous  phantom  which  men  call  Liberty ; most  treach- 
erous, indeed,  of  all  phantoms  ; for  the  feeblest  ray  of  reason 
might  surely  show  us,  that  not  only  its  attainment,  but  its 
being,  was  impossible.  There  is  no  such  thing  in  the  uni- 
verse. There  can  never  be.  The  stars  have  it  not ; the  earth 
has  it  not ; the  sea  has  it  not ; and  we  men  have  the  mockeiy 
and  semblance  of  it  only  for  our  heaviest  punishment. 

In  one  of  the  noblest  poems^^  for  its  imagery  and  its  music 
belonging  to  the  recent  school  of  our  literature,  the  writer 
has  sought  in  the  aspect  of  inanimate  nature  the  expression  of 
that  Liberty  which,  having  once  loved,  he  had  seen  among 
men  in  its  true  dyes  of  darkness.  But  with  what  strange 
fallacy  of  interpretation  ! since  in  one  noble  line  of  his  invo- 
cation he  has  contradicted  the  assumptions  of  the  rest,  and  ac- 
knowledged the  presence  of  a subjection,  surely  not  less  se- 
vere because  eternal?  How  could  he  otherwise?  since  if 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


189 


there  be  any  one  principle  more  widely  than  another  con- 
fessed by  every  utterance,  or  more  sternly  than  another  im- 
printed on  eveiy  atom,  of  the  visible  creation,  that  principle  is 
not  Liberty,  but  Law. 

n.  The  enthusiast  would  reply  that  by  Liberty  he  meant 
the  Law  of  Liberty.  Then  why  use  the  single  and  misunder- 
stood word  ? If  by  liberty  you  mean  chastisement  of  the  pas- 
sions, discipline  of  the  intellect,  subjection  of  the  will ; if  you 
mean  the  fear  of  inflicting,  the  shame  of  committing  a wrong  ; 
if  you  mean  respect  for  all  who  are  in  authority,  and  consid- 
eration for  all  who  are  in  dependence  ; veneration  for  the 
good,  mercy  to  the  evil,  sympathy  with  the  weak  ; if  you  mean 
watchfulness  over  all  thoughts,  temperance  in  all  pleasures, 
and  perseverance  in  all  toils  ; if  you  mean,  in  a word,  that 
Service  which  is  defined  in  the  liturgy  of  the  English  church 
to  be  perfect  Freedom,  why  do  you  name  this  by  the  same 
word  by  which  the  luxurious  mean  license,  and  the  reckless 
mean  change  ; by  which  the  rogue  means  rapine,  and  the  fool 
equality,  by  which  the  proud  mean  anarchy,  and  the  malignant 
mean  violence  ? Call  it  by  any  name  rather  than  this,  but  its 
best  and  truest  is.  Obedience.  Obedience  is,  indeed,  founded 
on  a kind  of  freedom,  else  its  would  become  mere  subjugation, 
but  that  freedom  is  only  granted  that  obedience  may  be  more 
perfect ; and  thus,  while  a measure  of  license  is  necessary  to 
exhibit  the  individual  energies  of  things,  the  fairness  and 
pleasantness  and  perfection  of  them  all  consist  in  their  Re- 
straint. Compare  a river  that  has  burst  its  banks  with  one 
that  is  bound  by  them,  and  tlie  clouds  that  are  scattered  over 
the  face  of  the  wdiole  heaven  with  those  that  are  marshalled 
into  ranks  and  orders  by  its  winds.  So  that  though  restraint, 
utter  and  unrelaxing,  can  never  be  comely,  this  is  not  because 
it  is  in  itself  an  evil,  but  only  because,  when  too  great,  it  over- 
powers the  nature  of  the  thing  restrained,  and  so  counteracts 
the  other  laws  of  which  that  nature  is  itself  composed.  And 
the  balance  wherein  consists  the  fairness  of  creation  is  be- 
tween the  laws  of  life  and  being  in  the  things  governed  and 
the  laws  of  general  sway  to  which  they  are  subjected  ; and  the 
suspension  or  infringement  of  either  kind  of  law,  or,  literally, 


100 


Tll/iJ  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


disorder,  is  equivalent  to,  and  synonymous  witli,  disease', 
"wliile  tlie  increase  of  both  honor  and  Ijeauty  is  habitually  on 
the  side  of  restraint  (or  the  action  of  superior  law)  rather  than 
of  character  (or  the  action  of  inherent  law).  Tlie  noblest 
word  in  the  catalogue  of  social  virtue  is  Loyalty,”  and  the 
sweetest  which  men  have  learned  in  the  pastures  of  the  wilder- 
ness is  “ Fold.” 

III.  Nor  is  this  all ; but  we  may  observe,  that  exactly  in 
j)roportion  to  the  majesty  of  things  in  the  scale  of  being,  is 
the  completeness  of  their  obedience  to  the  laws  that  are  set 
over  them.  Gravitation  is  less  quietly,  less  instantly  obeyed 
by  a grain  of  dust  than  it  is  by  the  sun  and  moon  ; and  the 
ocean  falls  and  flows  under  influences  which  the  lake  and 
river  do  not  recognize.  So  also  in  estimating  the  dignity  of 
any  action  or  occuj^ation  of  men,  there  is  perhaps  no  better 
test  than  the  question  ‘‘are  its  laws  strait?”  For  their  se- 
verity will  probably  be  commensurate  with  the  greatness  of 
the  numbers  wdiose  labor  it  concentrates  or  whose  interest  it 
concerns. 

This  severity  must  be  singular,  therefore,  in  the  case  of 
that  art,  above  all  others,  whose  productions  are  the  most  vast 
and  the  most  common  ; which  requires  for  its  practice  the  co- 
operation of  bodies  of  men,  and  for  its  perfection  the  per- 
severance of  successive  generations.  And  taking  into  account 
also  wdiat  -sve  have  before  so  often  observed  of  Ai'chitecture, 
her  continual  influence  over  the  emotions  of  daily  life,  and  her 
realism,  as  opposed  to  the  tw^o  sister  arts  which  are  in  com- 
parison but  the  picturing  of  stories  and  of  dreams,  "vve  might 
beforehand  exj^ect  that  we  should  find  her  healthy  state  and 
action  dependent  on  far  more  severe  la^vs  than  theirs  ; that  the 
license  wdiich  they  extend  to  the  workings  of  individual  mind 
would  be  withdrawn  by  her ; and  that,  in  assertion  of  the  re- 
lations which  she  holds  with  all  that  is  universally  important 
to  man,  she  would  set  forth,  by  her  own  majestic  subjection, 
some  likeness  of  that  on  wdiich  man’s  social  happiness  and 
power  depend.  We  might,  therefore,  without  the  light  of 
experience,  conclude,  that  Architecture  never  could  flourish 
exceiit  when  it  was  subjected  to  a national  law  as  strict  and 


TUB  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


191 


as  minutely  authoritative  as  the  laws  which  regulate  religion, 
policy,  and  social  relations  ; nay,  even  more  authoritative  than 
these,  because  both  capable  of  more  enforcement,  as  over 
more  passive  matter  ; and  needing  more  enforcement,  as  the 
purest  type  not  of  one  law  nor  of  another,  but  of  the  common 
authority  of  all.  But  in  this  matter  experience  speaks  more 
loudly  than  reason.  If  there  be  any  one  condition  which,  in 
watching  the  progress  of  architecture,  we  see  distinct  and 
general ; if,  amidst  the  counter  evidence  of  success  attending 
opposite  accidents  of  character  and  circumstance,  any  one 
conclusion  may  be  constantly  and  indisputably  drawn,  it  is 
this  ; that  the  architecture  of  a nation  is  great  only  when  it  is 
as  universal  and  as  established  as  its  language  ; and  when  pro- 
vincial differences  of  style  are  nothing  more  than  so  many  dia- 
lects. Other  necessities  are  matters  of  doubt : nations  have 
been  alike  successful  in  their  architecture  in  times  of  poverty 
and  of  wealth  ; in  times  of  war  and  of  peace  ; in  times  of  bar- 
barism and  of  refinement ; under  governments  the  most  lib- 
eral or  the  most  arbitrary ; but  this  one  condition  has  been 
constant,  this  one  requirement  clear  in  all  places  and  at  all 
times,  that  the  work  shall  be  that  of  a school,  that  no  indi- 
vidual caprice  shall  dispense  with,  or  materially  vary,  accepted 
types  and  customary  decorations  ; and  that  from  the  cottage 
to  the  palace,  and  from  the  chapel  to  the  basilica,  and  from 
the  garden  fence  to  the  fortress  wall,  every  member  and  feat- 
ure of  the  architecture  of  the  nation  shall  be  as  commonly 
current,  as  frankly  accepted,  as  its  language  or  its  coin. 

IV.  A day  never  passes  without  our  hearing  our  English 
architects  called  upon  to  be  original,  and  to  invent  a new  style : 
about  as  sensible  and  necessary  an  exhortation  as  to  ask  of  a 
man  who  has  never  had  rags  enough  on  his  back  to  keep  out 
cold,  to  invent  a new  mode  of  cutting  a coat.  Give  him  a 
whole  coat  first,  and  let  him  concern  himself  about  the  fashion 
of  it  afterwards.  We  want  no  new  style  of  architecture.  Who 
wants  a new  style  of  painting  or  sculpture  ? But  we  want 
some  style.  It  is  of  marvellously  little  importance,  if  we  have 
a code  of  laws  and  they  be  good  law's,  whether  they  be  new  or 
old,  foreign  or  native,  Roman  or  Saxon,  or  Norman  or  Eng' 


192 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


lish  laws.  But  it  is  of  considerable  importance  that  we  should 
have  a code  of  laws  of  one  kind  or  another,  and  that  code  ac- 
cepted and  enforced  from  one  side  of  the  island  to  another, 
and  not  one  law  made  ground  of  judgment  at  York  and  an- 
other in  Exeter.  And  in  like  manner  it  does  not  matter  one 
loarble  sidinter  whether  we  have  an  old  or  new  architecture, 
but  it  matters  everything  whether  we  have  an  architecture 
truly  so  called  or  not ; that  is,  whether  an  architecture  whose 
laws  might  be  taught  at  our  schools  from  Cornwall  to  Nor- 
thumberland, as  we  teach  English  spelling  and  English  gram- 
mar, or  an  architecture  which  is  to  be  invented  fresh  every 
time  we  build  a workhouse  or  a parish  school.  There  seems 
to  me  to  be  a wonderful  misunderstanding  among  the  major- 
ity of  architects  at  the  present  day  as  to  the  very  nature  and 
meaning  of  Originality,  and  of  all  wherein  it  consists.  Origi- 
nality in  exi3ression  does  not  depend  on  invention  Of  new  words ; 
nor  originality  in  poetry  on  invention  of  new  measures  ; nor, 
in  painting,  on  invention  of  new  colors,  or  new  modes  of  using 
them.  The  chords  of  music,  the  harmonies  of  color,  the  gen- 
eral principles  of  the  arrangement  of  sculptural  masses,  have 
been  determined  long  ago,  and,  in  all  probability,  cannot  be 
added  to  any  more  than  they  can  be  altered.  Granting  that 
they  may  be,  such  additions  or  alterations  are  much  more  the 
work  of  time  and  of  multitudes  than  of  individual  inventors. 
We  may  have  one  Van  Eyck,  who  will  be  known  as  the  in- 
troducer of  a new  style  once  in  ten  centuries,  but  he  himself 
will  trace  his  invention  to  some  accidental  bye-play  or  pursuit ; 
and  the  use  of  that  invention  will  depend  altogether  on  the 
popular  necessities  or  instincts  of  the  period.  Originality  de- 
pends on  nothing  of  the  kind.  A man  who  has  the  gift,  will 
take  up  any  style  that  is  going,  the  style  of  his  day,  and  will 
work  in  that,  and  be  great  in  that,  and  make  everything  that 
he  does  in  it  look  as  fresh  as  if  every  thought  of  it  had  just 
come  down  from  heaven.  I do  not  say  that  he  will  not  take 
liberties  with  his  materials,  or  with  his  rules  : I do  not  say 
that  strange  changes  will  not  sometimes  be  wrought  by  his 
efforts,  or  his  fancies,  in  both.  But  those  changes  will  be  in- 
structive, natural,  facile,  though  sometimes  marvellous ; they 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


193 


will  never  be  sought  after  as  things  necessary  to  his  dignity 
or  to  his  independence  ; and  those  liberties  will  be  like  the 
hberties  that  a great  speaker  takes  with  the  language,  not  a 
defiance  of  its  rules  for  the  sake  of  singularity ; but  inevitable, 
uncalculated,  and  brilliant  consequences  of  an  effort  to  express 
what  the  language,  without  such  infraction,  could  not.  There 
may  be  times  when,  as  I have  above  described,  the  life  of  an 
art  is  manifested  in  its  changes,  and  in  its  refusal  of  ancient 
limitations  : so  there  are  in  the  life  of  an  insect ; and  there  is 
great  interest  in  the  state  of  both  the  art  and  the  insect  at 
those  periods  when,  by  their  natural  progress  and  constitu- 
tional power,  such  changes  are  about  to  be  wrought.  But  as 
that  would  be  both  an  uncomfortable  and  foolish  caterpillar 
which,  instead  of  being  contented  with  a caterpillar’s  life  and 
feeding  on  caterpillar’s  food,  was  always  striving  to  turn  itself 
into  a chrysalis  ; and  as  that  would  be  an  unhappy  chi’ysalis 
which  should  lie  awake  at  night  and  roll  restlessly  in  its 
cocoon,  in  efforts  to  turn  itself  prematurely  into  a moth  ; so 
will  that  art  be  unhappy  and  unprosperous  which,  instead  of 
supporting  itself  on  theiood,  and  contenting  itself  with  the 
customs  which  have  been  enough  for  the  support  and  guid- 
ance of  other  arts  before  it  and  like  it,  is  struggling  and  fret- 
ting under  the  natural  limitations  of  its  existence,  and  striving 
to  become  something  other  than  it  is.  And  though  it  is  the 
nobility  of  the  highest  creatures  to  look  forward  to,  and  partly 
to  understand  the  changes  which  are  appointed  for  them,  pre- 
paring for  them  beforehand  ; and  if,  as  is  usual  with  appointed 
changes,  they  be  into  a higher  state,  even  desiring  them,  and 
rejoicing  in  the  hope  of  them,  yet  it  is  the  strength  of  every 
creature,  be  it  changeful  or  not,  to  rest  for  the  time  being, 
contented  with  the  conditions  of  its  existence,  and  striving 
only  to  bring  about  the  changes  which  it  desires,  by  fulfilling 
to  the  uttermost  the  duties  for  which  its  present  state  is 
appointed  and  contmued. 

V.  Neither  originality,  therefore,  nor  change,  good  though 
both  may  be,  and  this  is  commonly  a most  merciful  and  en- 
thusiastic supposition  with  respect  to  either,  are  ever  to  be 

Bought  in  themselves,  or  can  ever  be  healthily  obtained  by  any 
13 


194 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


struggle  or  rebellion  against  common  laws.  We  want  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other.  The  forms  of  architecture  already 
known  are  good  enough  for  us,  and  for  far  better  than  any  of 
us : and  it  will  be  time  enough  to  think  of  changing  them  for 
better  when  we  can  use  them  as  they  are.  But  there  are 
some  things  which  we  not  only  want,  but  cannot  do  without ; 
and  which  all  the  struggling  and  raving  in  the  world,  nay 
more,  which  all  the  real  talent  and  resolution  in  England,  will 
never  enable  us  to  do  without : and  these  are  Obedience, 
Unity,  Fellowship,  and  Order.  And  all  our  schools  of  design, 
and  committees  of  tastes  ; all  our  academies  and  lectures,  and 
journalisms,  and  essays  ; all  the  sacrifices  which  we  are  begin- 
ning to  make,  all  the  truth  which  there  is  in  our  English  nat- 
ure, all  the  power  of  our  English  will,  and  the  life  of  our 
English  intellect,  will  in  this  matter  be  as  useless  as  efforts 
and  emotions  in  a dream,  unless  we  are  contented  to  submit 
architecture  and  all  art,  like  other  things,  to  English  law. 

VI.  I say  architecture  and  all  art ; for  I believe  architecture 
must  be  the  beginning  of  arts,  and  that  the  others  must  fob 
low  her  in  their  time  and  order ; and  I think  the  prosj)erity 
of  our  schools  of  painting  and  sculpture,  in  which  no  one  will 
deny  the  life,  though  many  the  health,  depends  upon  that  of 
our  architecture.  I think  that  all  will  languish  until  that 
takes  the  lead,  and  (this  I do  not  think,  but  I proclaim,  as 
confidently  as  I would  assert  the  necessity,  for  the  safety  of 
society,  of  an  understood  and  strongly  administered  legal  gov- 
ernment) our  architecture  will  languish,  and  that  in  the  very 
dust,  until  the  first  principle  of  common  sense  be  manfully 
obeyed,  and  an  universal  system  of  form  and  workmanship  be 
everywhere  adopted  and  enforced.  It  may  be  said  that  this 
is  impossible.  It  may  be  so — I fear  it  is  so  : I have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  possibility  or  impossibility  of  it ; I simply 
know  and  assert  the  necessity  of  it.  If  it  be  impossible,  Eng- 
lish art  is  impossible.  Give  it  up  at  once.  You  are  wasting 
time,  and  money,  and  energy  upon  it,  and  though  you  ex- 
haust centuries  and  treasuries,  and  break  hearts  for  it,  you 
will  never  raise  it  above  the  merest  dilettanteism.  Think  not 
of  it.  It  is  a dangerous  vanity,  a mere  gulph  in  which  genius 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


195 


after  genius  will  be  swallowed  up,  and  it  will  not  close.  And 
so  it  will  continue  to  be,  unless  the  one  bold  and  broad  step  be 
taken  at  the  beginning.  We  shall  not  manufacture  art  out  of 
pottery  and  printed  stuffs  ; we  shall  not  reason  out  art  by  our 
philosophy  ; we  shall  not  stumble  upon  art  by  our  experi- 
ments, not  create  it  by  our  fancies  : I do  not  say  that  we  can 
even  build  it  out  of  brick  and  stone  ; but  there  is  a chance 
for  us  in  these,  and  there  is  none  else  ; and  that  chance  rests 
on  the  bare  possibility  of  obtaining  the  consent,  both  of 
architects  and  of  the  public,  to  choose  a style,  and  to  use  it 
universally. 

Vn.  How  surely  its  principles  ought  at  first  to  be  limited, 
we  may  easily  determine  by  the  consideration  of  the  neces- 
sary modes  of  teaching  any  other  branch  of  general  knowl- 
edge. When  we  begin  to  teach  children  writing,  we  force 
them  to  absolute  copyism,  and  require  absolute  accuracy  in 
the  formation  of  the  letters  ; as  they  obtain  command  of  the 
received  modes  of  literal  expression,  we  cannot  prevent  their 
falling  into  such  variations  as  are  consistent  with  their  feel- 
ing, their  circumstances,  or  their  characters.  So,  when  a boy 
is  first  taught  to  write  Latin,  an  authority  is  required  of  him 
for  every  expression  he  uses  ; as  he  becomes  master  of  the 
language  he  may  take  a license,  and  feel  his  right  to  do  so 
without  any  authority,  and  yet  write  better  Latin  than  when 
he  borrowed  every  separate  expression.  In  the  same  way  our 
architects  would  have  to  be  taught  to  write  the  accepted  style. 
We  must  first  determine  what  buildings  are  to  be  considered 
Augustan  in  their  authority  ; their  modes  of  construction  and 
laws  of  proportion  are  to  be  studied  with  the  most  penetrat- 
ing care ; then  the  different  forms  and  uses  of  their  decora- 
tions are  to  be  classed  and  catalogued,  as  a German  gramma- 
rian classes  the  powers  of  prepositions  ; and  under  this 
absolute,  irrefragable  authority,  w'e  are  to  begin  to  work ; 
admitting  not  so  much  as  an  alteration  in  the  depth  of  a 
cavetto,  or  the  breadth  of  a fillet.  Then,  when  our  sight  is 
once  accustomed  to  the  grammatical  forms  and  arrangements, 
and  our  thoughts  familiar  with  the  expression  of  them  all ; 
when  we  can  speak  this  dead  language  naturally,  and  apply  it 


196 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


to  whatever  ideas  we  have  to  render,  that  is  to  say,  to  every 
practical  purj^ose  of  life  ; then,  and  not  till  then,  a license 
might  be  permitted  ; and  individual  authority  allowed  to 
change  or  to  add  to  the  received  forms,  always  within  certain 
limits  ; the  decorations,  especially,  might  be  made  subjects  of 
variable  fancy,  and  enriched  with  ideas  either  original  or 
taken  from  other  schools.  And  thus  in  process  of  time  and 
by  a great  national  movement,  it  might  come  to  pass,  that  a 
new  style  should  arise,  as  language  itself  changes ; we  might 
perhaps  come  to  speak  Italian  instead  of  Latin,  or  to  speak 
modern  instead  of  old  English  ; but  this  would  be  a mattei 
of  entire  indifference,  and  a matter,  besides,  which  no  deter- 
mination or  desire  could  either  hasten  or  prevent.  That 
alone  which  it  is  in  our  power  to  obtain,  and  which  it  is  our 
duty  to  desire,  is  an  unanimous  style  of  some  kind,  and  such 
comprehension  and  practice  of  it  as  would  enable  us  to  adapt 
its  features  to  the  peculiar  character  of  every  several  building, 
large  or  small,  domestic,  civil,  or  ecclesiastical,  I have  said 
that  it  was  immaterial  what  style  was  adoj)ted,  so  far  as  re- 
gards the  room  for  originality  which  its  developement  would 
admit : it  is  not  so,  however,  when  we  take  into  consideration 
the  far  more  important  questions  of  the  facility  of  adaptation 
to  general  purposes,  and  of  the  sympathy  with  which  this  or  that 
style  would  be  popularly  regarded.  The  choice  of  Classical 
or  Gothic,  again  using  the  latter  term  in  its  broadest  sense, 
may  be  questionable  when  it  regards  some  single  and  consid- 
erable public  building  ; but  I cannot  conceive  it  questionable, 
for  an  instant,  when  it  regards  modern  uses  in  general : I 
cannot  conceive  any  architect  insane  enough  to  project  the 
vulgarization  of  Greek  architecture.  Neither  can  it  be  ration- 
ally questionable  whether  we  should  adopt  early  or  late,  origb 
nal  or  derivative  Gothic  : if  the  latter  were  chosen,  it  must  be 
either  some  impotent  and  ugly  degradation,  like  our  own 
Tudor,  or  else  a style  whose  grammatical  laws  it  would  be 
nearly  impossible  to  limit  or  arrange,  like  the  French  Flam- 
boyant. We  are  equally  precluded  from  adopting  styles  es- 
sentially infantine  or  barbarous,  however  Herculean  their  in- 
fancy, or  majestic  their  outlawry,  such  as  our  own  Norman, 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


197 


or  the  Lombard  Komanesque.  The  choice  would  lie  I think 
between  four  styles : — 1.  The  Pisan  Komanesque  ; 2.  The 
early  Gothic  of  the  Western  Italian  Kepublics,  advanced  as 
far  and  as  fast  as  our  art  would  enable  us  to  the  Gothic  of 
Giotto  ; 3.  The  Venetian  Gothic  in  its  purest  developement ; 
4.  The  English  earliest  decorated.  The  most  natural,  per- 
haps the  safest  choice,  would  be  of  the  last,  weU  fenced  from 
chance  of  again  stiffening  into  the  perpendicular ; and  per- 
haps enriched  by  some  mingling  of  decorative  elements  from 
the  exquisite  decorated  Gothic  of  France,  of  which,  in  such 
cases,  it  would  be  needful  to  accept  some  well  known  ex- 
amples, as  the  North  door  of  Rouen  and  the  church  of  St. 
Urbain  at  Troyes,  for  final  and  limiting  authorities  on  the 
side  of  decoration. 

VIII.  It  is  almost  impossible  for  us  to  conceive,  in  our  pres- 
ent state  of  doubt  and  ignorance,  the  sudden  dawn  of  intel- 
ligence and  fancy,  the  rapidly  increasing  sense  of  power  and 
facility,  and,  in  its  proper  sense,  of  Freedom,  which  such  whole- 
some restraint  would  instantly  cause  throughout  the  whole 
circle  of  the  arts.  Freed  from  the  agitation  and  embarrass- 
ment of  that  liberty  of  choice  which  is  the  cause  of  half  the 
discomforts  of  the  world ; freed  from  the  accompanying  ne- 
cessity of  studying  all  past,  present,  or  even  possible  styles  ; 
and  enabled,  by  concentration  of  individual,  and  co-operation 
of  multitudinous  energy,  to  penetrate  into  the  uttermost  se- 
crets of  the  adopted  style,  the  architect  would  find  his  whole 
understanding  enlarged,  his  practical  knowledge  certain  and 
ready  to  hand,  and  his  imagination  playful  and  vigorous,  as  a 
child’s  would  be  within  a walled  garden,  who  would  sit  down 
and  shudder  if  he  were  left  free  in  a fenceless  plain.  How 
many  and  how  bright  would  be  the  results  in  every  direction 
of  interest,  not  to  the  arts  merely,  but  to  national  happiness 
and  virtue,  it  would  be  as  difficult  to  preconceive  as  it  would 
seem  extravagant  to  state  : but  the  first,  perhaps  the  least,  of 
them  would  be  an  increased  sense  of  fellowship  among  our- 
selves, a cementing  of  every  patriotic  bond  of  union,  a proud 
and  happy  recognition  of  our  affection  for  and  sympathy  with 
each  other,  and  our  willingness  in  all  things  to  submit  our- 


198 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


selves  to  every  law  that  would  advance  the  interest  of  the  com« 
munity  ; a barrier,  also,  the  best  conceivable,  to  the  unhappy 
rivalry  of  the  upper  and  middle  classes,  in  houses,  furniture, 
and  establishments ; and  even  a check  to  much  of  what  is 
as  vain  as  it  is  painful  in  the  oppositions  of  religious  parties 
respecting  matters  of  ritual.  These,  I say,  would  be  the  first 
consequences.  Economy  increased  tenfold,  as  it  would  be  by 
the  simplicity  of  practice;  domestic  comforts  uninterfered 
with  by  the  caprice  and  mistakes  of  architects  ignorant  of  the 
capacities  of  the  styles  they  use,  and  all  the  symmetry  and 
sightliness  of  our  harmonized  streets  and  public  buildings, 
are  things  of  slighter  account  in  the  catalogue  of  benefits. 
But  it  would  be  mere  enthusiasm  to  endeavor  to  trace  them 
farther.  I have  suffered  myself  too  long  to  indulge  in  the 
speculative  statement  of  requirements  which  perhaps  we  have 
more  immediate  and  more  serious  work  than  to  supply,  and 
of  feelings  which  it  may  be  only  contingently  in  our  power  to 
recover.  I should  be  unjustly  thought  unaware  of  the  diffi- 
culty of  what  I have  proposed,  or  of  the  unimportance  of  the 
whole  subject  as  compared  with  many  which  are  brought  home 
to  our  interests  and  fixed  upon  our  consideration  by  the  wild 
course  of  the  present  century.  But  of  difficulty  and  of  im- 
portance it  is  for  others  to  judge.  I have  limited  myself  to 
the  simple  statement  of  what,  if  we  desire  to  have  architecture, 
we  MUST  primarily  endeavor  to  feel  and  do  : but  then  it  may 
not  be  desirable  for  us  to  have  architecture  at  all.  There  are 
many  who  feel  it  to  be  so  ; many  who  sacrifice  much  to  that 
end  ; and  I am  sorry  to  see  their  energies  wasted  and  their 
lives  disquieted  in  vain.  I have  stated,  therefore,  the  only 
ways  in  which  that  end  is  attainable,  without  venturing  even 
to  express  an  opinion  as  to  its  real  desirableness.  I have  an 
opinion,  and  the  zeal  with  which  I have  spoken  may  some- 
times have  betrayed  it,  but  I hold  to  it  with  no  confidence.  I 
know  too  well  the  undue  importance  which  the  study  that 
every  man  follows  must  assume  in  his  own  eyes,  to  trust  my 
own  impressions  of  the  dignity  of  that  of  Architecture  ; and 
yet  I think  I cannot  be  utterly  mistaken  in  regarding  it  as  at 
least  useful  in  the  sense  of  a National  employment.  I am  com 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


199 


firmed  in  tliis  impression  by  wliat  I see  passing  among  the 
states  of  Europe  at  this  instant.  All  the  horror,  distress,  and 
tumult  which  oppress  the  foreign  nations,  are  traceable, 
among  the  other  secondary  causes  through  which  God  is  work- 
ing out  His  will  upon  them,  to  the  simple  one  of  their  not 
having  enough  to  do.  I am  not  blind  to  the  distress  among 
their  operatives  ; nor  do  I deny  the  nearer  and  visibly  active 
causes  of  the  movement : the  recklessness  of  villany  in  the 
leaders  of  revolt,  the  absence  of  common  moral  principle  in 
the  upper  classes,  and  of  common  courage  and  honesty  in  the 
heads  of  governments.  But  these  causes  themselves  are  ulti- 
mately traceable  to  a deeper  and  simpler  one  : the  recklessness 
of  the  demagogue,  the  immorality  of  the  middle  class,  and  the 
effeminacy  and  treachery  of  the  noble,  are  traceable  in  all  these 
nations  to  the  commonest  and  most  fruitful  cause  of  calamity 
in  households — idleness.  We  think  too  much  in  our  benev- 
olent efforts,  more  multiplied  and  more  vain  day  by  day,  of 
bettering  men  by  giving  them  advice  and  instruction.  There 
are  few  who  will  take  either  : the  chief  thing  they  need  is  oc- 
cupation. I do  not  mean  work  in  the  sense  of  bread, — I mean 
work  in  the  sense  of  mental  interest  ; for  those  who  either 
are  placed  above  the  necessity  of  labor  for  their  bread,  or  who 
will  not  work  although  they  should.  There  is  a vast  quantity 
of  idle  energy  among  European  nations  at  this  time,  which 
ought  to  go  into  handicrafts  ; there  are  multitudes  of  idle 
semi-gentlemen  who  ought  to  be  shoemakers  and  carpenters ; 
but  since  they  will  not  be  these  so  long  as  they  can  help  it, 
the  business  of  the  philanthropist  is  to  find  them  some  other 
employment  than  disturbing  governments.  It  is  of  no  use 
to  tell  them  they  are  fools,  and  that  they  will  only  make  them-= 
selves  miserable  in  the  end  as  weU  as  others : if  they  have 
nothing  else  to  do,  they  will  do  mischief  ; and  the  man  who 
will  not  work,  and  who  has  no  means  of  intellectual  pleasure, 
is  as  sure  to  become  an  instrument  of  evil  as  if  he  had  sold  him- 
self bodily  to  Satan.  I have  myself  seen  enough  of  the  daily 
life  of  the  young  educated  men  of  France  and  Italy,  to  ac- 
count for,  as  it  deserves,  the  deepest  national  suffering  and 
degradation  ; and  though,  for  the  most  part,  our  commerce 


200 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


and  our  natural  habits  of  industry  preserve  us  from  a simn 
lar  paralysis,  yet  it  would  be  wise  to  consider  whether  the 
forms  of  employment  which  we  chiefly  adopt  or  promote,  are 
as  well  calculated  as  they  might  be  to  improve  and  elevate 
us. 

We  have  just  spent,  for  instance,  a hundred  and  fifty  mill- 
ions, with  which  we  have  paid  men  for  digging  ground  from 
one  place  and  depositing  it  in  another.  We  have  formed  a 
large  class  of  men,  the  railway  navvies,  especially  reckless,  un- 
manageable, and  dangerous.  We  have  maintained  besides 
(let  us  state  the  benefits  as  fairly  as  possible)  a number  of  iron 
founders  in  an  unhealthy  and  painful  employment ; we  have 
developed  (this  is  at  least  good)  a very  large  amount  of  me- 
chanical ingenuity  ; and  we  have,  in  fine,  attained  the  powet 
of  going  fast  from  one  place  to  another.  Meantime  we  have 
had  no  mental  interest  or  concern  ourselves  in  the  operations 
we  have  set  on  foot,  but  have  been  left  to  the  usual  vanities 
and  cares  of  our  existence.  Suppose,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
we  had  employed  the  same  sums  in  building  beautiful  houses 
and  churches.  We  should  have  maintained  the  same  number 
of  men,  not  in  driving  wheelbarrows,  but  in  a distinctly  tech- 
nical, if  not  intellectual,  employment,  and  those  who  were 
more  intelligent  among  them  would  have  been  especially 
happy  in  that  employment,  as  having  room  in  it  for  the  de- 
velopement  of  their  fancy,  and  being  directed  by  it  to  that  ob- 
servation of  beauty  which,  associated  with  the  pursuit  of  nat- 
ural science,  at  present  forms  the  enjoyment  of  many  of  the 
more  intelligent  manufacturing  operatives.  Of  mechanical  in- 
genuity, there  is,  I imagine,  at  least  as  much  required  to  build 
a cathedral  as  to  cut  a tunnel  or  contrive  a locomotive  : we 
should,  therefore,  have  developed  as  much  science,  while  the 
artistical  element  cf  intellect  would  have  been  added  to  the 
gain.  Meantime  we  should  ourselves  have  been  made  happier 
and  wiser  by  the  interest  we  should  have  taken  in  the  work 
with  which  we  were  personally  concerned  ; and  when  all  was 
done,  instead  of  the  very  doubtful  advantage  of  the  power  of. 
going  fast  from  place  to  place,  we  should  have  had  the  certain 
advantage  of  increased  pleasure  in  stoi)ping  at  home. 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE. 


201 


IX.  There  are  many  other  less  capacious,  but  more  con- 
stant, channels  of  expenditure,  quite  as  disputable  in  theif 
beneficial  tendency  ; and  we  are,  perhaps,  hardly  enough  in 
the  habit  of  inquiring,  with  respect  to  any  particular  form  of 
luxury  or  any  customary  appliance  of  life,  whether  the  kind 
of  employment  it  gives  to  the  operative  or  the  dependant  be 
as  healthy  and  fitting  an  employment  as  we  might  otherwise 
provide  for  him.  It  is  not  enough  to  find  men  absolute  sub- 
sistence ; we  should  think  of  the  manner  of  life  which  our 
demands  necessitate  ; and  endeavor,  as  far  as  may  be,  to 
make  all  our  needs  such  as  may,  in  the  supply  of  them,  raise, 
as  well  as  feed,  the  poor.  It  is  far  better  to  give  work  which 
is  above  the  men,  than  to  educate  the  men  to  be  above  their 
work.  It  may  be  doubted,  for  instance,  whether  the  habits 
of  luxury,  which  necessitate  a large  train  of  men  servants,  be 
a wholesome  form  of  expenditure  ; and  more,  whether  the 
pursuits  which  have  a tendency  to  enlarge  the  class  of  the 
jockey  and  the  groom  be  a philanthropic  form  of  mental  occu- 
pation. So  again,  consider  the  large  number  of  men  whose 
lives  are  employed  by  civilized  nations  in  cutting  facets  upon 
jewels.  There  is  much  dexterity  of  hand,  patience,  and  inge- 
nuity thus  bestowed,  which  are  simply  burned  out  in  the  blaze 
of  the  tiara,  without,  so  far  as  I see,  bestowing  any  pleasure 
upon  those  who  wear  or  who  behold,  at  all  compensatory  for 
the  loss  of  life  and  mental  power  which  are  involved  in  the 
employment  of  the  workman.  He  would  be  far  more  healthily 
and  happily  sustained  by  being  set  to  carve  stone  ; certain 
qualities  of  his  mind,  for  which  there  is  no  room  in  his  present 
occupation,  would  develope  themselves  in  the  nobler ; and  I 
believe  that  most  women  would,  in  the  end,  prefer  the  pleas- 
ure of  having  built  a church,  or  contributed  to  the  adornment 
of  a cathedral,  to  the  pride  of  bearing  a certain  quantity  of 
adamant  on  their  foreheads. 

X.  I could  pursue  this  subject  willingly,  but  I have  some 
strange  notions  about  it  which  it  is  perhaps  wiser  not  loosely 
to  set  down.  I content  myself  with  finally  reasserting,  what 
has  been  throughout  the  burden  of  the  preceding  pages,  that 
whatever  rank,  or  whatever  importance,  may  be  attributed  or 


202 


THE  LAMP  OBEDIENCE. 


attached  to  their  immediate  subject,  there  is  at  least  some 
value  in  the  analogies  with  which  its  pursuit  has  presented  us, 
and  some  instruction  in  the  frequent  reference  of  its  common- 
est necessities  to  the  mighty  laws,  in  the  sense  and  scope  of 
which  all  men  are  Builders,  whom  every  hour  sees  laying  the 
stubble  or  the  stone. 

I have  paused,  not  once  nor  twice,  as  I wrote,  and  often  have 
checked  the  course  of  what  might  otherwise  have  been  impor- 
tunate persuasion,  as  the  thought  has  crossed  me,  how  soon 
all  Architecture  may  be  vain,  except  that  which  is  not  made 
with  hands.  There  is  something  ominous  in  the  light  which 
has  enabled  us  to  look  back  with  disdain  upon  the  ages  among 
whose  lovely  vestiges  we  have  been  wandering.  I could  smile 
when  I hear  the  hopeful  exultation  of  many,  at  the  new  reach 
of  worldly  science,  and  vigor  of  worldly  effort ; as  if  we  were 
again  at  the  beginning  of  days.  There  is  thunder  on  the  ho- 
rizon as  well  as  dawn.  The  sun  was  risen  U230n  the  earth 
when  Lot  entered  into  Zoar. 


V 


NOTES 


Note  1. 

Page  21. 

“ With  the  idolatrous  Egyptian^ 

The  pro^bability  is  indeed  slight  in  comparison,  but  it  is  a probability 
nevertheless,  and  one  which  is  daily  on  the  increase.  I trust  that  I 
may  not  be  thought  to  underrate  the  danger  of  such  sympathy,  though 
I speak  lightly  of  the  chance  of  it.  I have  confidence  in  the  central 
•religious  body  of  the  English  and  Scottish  people,  as  being  not  only 
untainted  with  Romanism,  but  immoveably  adverse  to  it : and,  how- 
ever strangely  and  swiftly  the  heresy  of  the  Protestant  and  victory  of 
the  Papist  may  seem  to  be  extending  among  us,  I feel  assured  that 
there  are  barriers  in  the  living  faith  of  this  nation  which  neither  can 
overpass.  Yet  this  confidence  is  only  in  the  ultimate  faithfulness  of  a 
few,  not  in  the  security  of  the  nation  from  the  sin  and  the  punishment 
of  partial  apostasy.  Both  have,  indeed,  in  some  sort,  been  committed 
and  suffered  already  ; and,  in  expressing  my  belief  of  the  close  connec- 
tion of  the  distress  and  burden  which  the  mass  of  the  people  at  present 
sustain,  with  the  encouragement  which,  in  various  directions,  has  been 
given  to  the  Papist,  do  not  let  me  be  called  superstitious  or  irrational. 
No  man  was  ever  more  inclined  than  I,  both  by  natural  disposition  and 
by  many  ties  of  early  association,  to  a sympathy  with  the  principles 
and  forms  of  the  Romanist  Church  ; and  there  is  much  in  its  discipline 
which  conscientiously,  as  well  as  sympathetically,  I could  love  and  ad- 
vocate. But,  in  confessing  this  strength  of  affectionate  prejudice, 
surely  I vindicate  more  respect  for  my  firmly  expressed  belief,  that  the 
entire  doctrine  and  system  of  that  Church  is  in  the  fullest  sense  anti- 
Christian  ; that  its  lying  and  idolatrous  Power  is  the  darkest  plague 
that  ever  held  commission  to  hurt  the  Earth  ; that  all  those  yearnings 
for  unity  and  fellowship,  and  common  obedience,  which  have  been  the 
root  of  our  late  heresies,  are  as  false  in  their  grounds  as  fatal  in  their 
termination  ; that  we  never  can  have  the  remotest  fellowship  with  the 
utterers  of  that  fearful  Falsehood,  and  live  ; that  we  have  nothing  to 
look  to  from  them  but  treacherous  hostility  ; and  that,  exactly  in  pro- 
portion to  the  sternness  of  our  separation  from  them,  will  be  not  only 


204 


NOTES. 


tlie  spiritual  but  the  temporal  blessings  granted  by  God  to  this  country. 
How  close  lias  been  the  correspondence  hitherto  between  the  degree  of 
resistance  to  llomanism  marked  in  our  national  acts,  and  the  honor 
with  which  those  acts  have  been  crowned,  has  been  sufficiently  proved 
in  a short  essay  by  a writer  whose  investigations  into  the  influence  of 
Religion  upon  the  fate  of  Nations  have  been  singularly  earnest  and  suc- 
cessful— a writer  with  whom  I faithfully  and  firmly  believe  that  Eng- 
land will  never  be  prosperous  again,  and  that  the  honor  of  her  arms 
will  be  tarnished,  and  her  commerce  blighted,  and  her  national  char- 
acter degraded,  until  the  Romanist  is  expelled  from  the  place  which 
has  impiously  been  conceded  to  him  among  her  legislators.  “ What- 
ever be  the  lot  of  those  to  whom  error  is  an  inheritance,  woe  be  to  the 
man  and  the  people  to  whom  it  is  an  adoption.  If  England,  free  above 
all  other  nations,  sustained  amidst  the  trials  which  have  covered  Eu- 
rope, before  her  eyes,  witli  burning  and  slaughter,  and  enlightened  by 
the  fullest  knowledge  of  divine  truth,  shall  refuse  fidelity  to  the  com- 
pact by  which  those  matchless  privileges  have  been  given,  her  condem- 
nation will  not  linger.  She  has  already  made  one  step  full  of  danger. 
She  has  committed  the  capital  error  of  mistaking  that  for  a purely  polit- 
ical question  which  was  a purely  religious  one.  Her  foot  already  hangs 
over  the  edge  of  the  precipice.  It  must  be  retracted,  or  the  empire  is  but 
a name.  In  the  clouds  and  darkness  which  seem  to  be  deepening  on 
all  human  policy — in  the  gathering  tumults  of  Europe,  and  the  feverish 
discontents  at  home — it  may  be  even  difficult  to  discern  where  the 
power  yet  lives  to  erect  the  fallen  majesty  of  the  constitution  once  more. 
But  there  are  mighty  means  in  sincerity  ; and  if  no  miracle  was  ever 
wrought  for  the  faithless  and  despairing,  the  country  that  will  help  it- 
self will  never  be  left  destitute  of  the  help  of  Heaven  ” (Historical  Es- 
says, by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Croly,  1842).  The  first  of  these  essays,  “Eng- 
land the  Fortress  of  Christianity,”  I most  earnestly  recommend  to  the 
meditation  of  those  who  doubt  that  a special  punishment  is  inflicted  by 
the  Deity  upon  all  national  crime,  and  perhaps,  of  all  such  crime  most 
instantly  upon  the  betrayal  on  the  part  of  England  of  the  truth  and  faith 
with  which  she  has  been  entrusted. 


Note  II. 

Page  25. 

“ Not  the  gift,  hut  the  giving. 

Much  attention  has  lately  been  directed  to  the  subject  of  religious 
art,  and  we  are  now  in  possession  of  all  kinds  of  interpretations  and 
classifications  of  it,  and  of  the  leading  facts  of  its  history.  But  the 
greatest  question  of  all  connected  with  it  remains  entirely  unanswered, 


NOTES. 


205 


What  good  did  it  do  to  real  religion  ? There  is  no  subject  into  which  I 
should  so  much  rejoice  to  see  a serious  and  conscientious  inquiry  insti- 
tuted as  this  ; an  inquiry  neither  undertaken  in  artistical  enthusiasm 
nor  in  monkish  sympathy,  but  dogged,  merciless  and  fearless.  I love 
the  religious  art  of  Italy  as  well  as  most  men,  but  there  is  a wide  differ- 
ence between  loving  it  as  a manifestation  of  individual  feeling,  and 
looking  to  it  as  an  instrument  of  popular  benefit.  I have  not  knowledge 
enough  to  form  even  the  shadow  of  an  opinion  on  this  latter  point,  and 
I should  be  most  grateful  to  any  one  who  would  put  it  in  my  power  to 
do  so.  There  are,  as  it  seems  to  me,  three  distinct  questions  to  be  con- 
sidered : the  first,  What  has  been  the  effect  of  external  splendor  on 
the  genuineness  and  earnestness  of  Christian  worship  ? the  second.  What 
the  use  of  pictorial  or  sculptural  representation  in  the  communication  of 
Christian  historical  knowledge,  or  excitement  of  affectionate  imagina- 
tion ? the  third.  What  the  influence  of  the  practice  of  religious  art  on 
the  life  of  the  artist  ? 

In  answering  these  inquiries,  we  should  have  to  consider  separately 
every  collateral  influence  and  circumstance  ; and,  by  a most  subtle 
analysis,  to  eliminate  the  real  effect  of  art  from  the  effects  of  the  abuses 
with  which  it  was  associated.  This  could  be  done  only  by  a Christian  ; 
not  a man  who  would  fall  in  love  with  a sweet  color  or  sweet  expres- 
sion, but  who  would  look  for  true  faith  and  consistent  life  as  the  object 
of  all.  It  never  has  been  done  yet,  and  the  question  remains  a subject 
of  vain  and  endless  contention  between  parties  of  opposite  prejudices 
and  temperaments. 


Note  III. 

Page  26. 

“ To  tlie  concealment  of  what  is  really  good  or  greaV' 

I HAYE  often  been  surprised  at  the  supposition  that  Romanism,  in  its 
present  condition,  could  either  patronise  art  or  profit  by  it.  The  noble 
painted  windows  of  St.  Maclou  at  Rouen,  and  many  other  churches  in 
France,  are  entirely  blocked  up  behind  the  altars  by  the  erection  of 
huge  gilded  wooden  sunbeams,  with  interspersed  cherubs. 


Note  IV. 

Page  33. 

“ With  different  pattern  of  traceries  in  each." 

I HAVE  certainly  not  examined  the  seven  hundred  and  four  traceries 
(four  to  each  niche)  so  as  to  be  sure  that  none  are  alike  ; but  they  have 
the  aspect  of  continual  variation,  and  even  the  roses  of  the  pendants  of 
the  small  groined  niche  roofs  are  all  of  different  patterns. 


206 


NOTES. 


Note  V. 

Page  43. 

“ Its  jlamhoyant  traceries  of  the  last  and  most  degraded  for  ms" 

They  are  noticed  by  Mr,  Wliewell  as  forming  the  figure  of  the  fleur-de 
Hs,  always  a mark,  when  in  tracery  bars,  of  the  most  debased  flamboy- 
ant. It  occurs  in  the  central  tower  of  Bayeux,  very  richly  in  the  but- 
tresses of  St.  Gervais  at  Falaise,  and  in  the  small  niches  of  some  of  the 
domestic  buildings  at  Bouen,  Nor  is  it  only  the  tower  of  St.  Ouen 
which  is  overrated.  Its  nave  is  a base  imitation,  in  the  flamboyant  pe- 
riod, of  an  early  Gothic  arrangement ; the  niches  on  its  piers  are  bar- 
barisms ; there  is  a huge  square  shaft  run  through  the  ceiling  of  the 
aisles  to  support  the  nave  piers,  the  ugliest  excrescence  I ever  saw  on 
a Gothic  building  ; the  traceries  of  the  nave  are  the  most  insipid  and 
faded  flamboyant ; those  of  the  transept  clerestory  present  a singularly 
distorted  condition  of  perpendicular  ; even  the  elaborate  door  of  the 
south  transept  is,  for  its  fine  period,  extravagant  and  almost  grotesque 
in  its  foliation  and  pendants.  There  is  nothing  truly  fine  in  the  church 
but  the  choir,  the  light  triforium,  and  tall  clerestory,  the  circle  of  East- 
ern chapels,  the  details  of  sculpture,  and  the  general  lightness  of  pro- 
portion ; these  merits  being  seen  to  the  utmost  advantage  by  the  free-' 
dom  of  the  body  of  the  church  from  all  incumbrance. 


Note  VI. 

Page  43. 

Compare  Iliad  2.  1.  219  with  Odyssey  n.  1.  5 — 10. 


Note  VII. 

Page  44. 

Does  not  admit  iron  as  a constructive  material.'^ 
Except  in  Chaucer’s  noble  temple  of  Mars. 

“ And  dounward  from  an  hill  under  a bent, 

Ther  stood  the  temple  of  Mars,  armipotent. 
Wrought  all  of  burned  stele,  of  which  th’  entree 
Was  longe  and  streite,  and  gastly  for  to  see. 

And  thereout  came  a rage  and  swiche  a vise. 
That  it  made  all  the  gates  for  to  rise. 

The  northern  light  in  at  the  dore  shone, 

For  window  on  the  wall  ne  was  ther  none, 
Thurgh  which  men  mighten  any  light  discerne 
The  dore  was  all  of  athamant  eterne, 


NOTES. 


207 


Yclenched  overtliwart  and  ende  long 
With  yren  tough,  and  for  to  make  it  strong, 

Every  piler  the  temple  to  sustene 

Was  tonne-gret,  of  yren  bright  and  shene.” 

TJie  Knighte^s  Tale. 

There  is,  by  the  bye,  an  exquisite  piece  of  architectural  color  just  be’ 
fore : 

“ And  northward,  in  a turret  on  the  wall 
Of  alabaster  white.,  and  red  corall^ 

An  oratorie  riche  for  to  see. 

In  worship  of  Diane  of  Chastitee.” 


Note  VIII. 

Page  44. 

“ The  Builders  of  Salisbury.'^' 

“ Tms  way  of  tying  walls  together  with  iron,  instead  of  making  them 
of  that  substance  and  form,  that  they  shall  naturally  poise  themselves 
upon  their  buttment,  is  against  the  rules  of  good  architecture,  not  only 
because  iron  is  corruptible  by  rust,  but  because  it  is  fallacious,  having 
unequal  veins  in  the  metal,  some  places  of  the  same  bar  being  three 
times  stronger  than  others,  and  yet  all  sound  to  appearance.”  Survey 
of  Salisbury?  Cathedral  in  1668,  by  Sir  C.  Wren.  For  my  own  part,  I 
think  it  better  work  to  bind  a tower  with  iron,  than  to  support  a false 
dome  by  a brick  pyramid. 


Note  IX. 

Page  60. 

Plate  III. 

In  this  plate,  figures  4,  5,  and  6,  are  glazed  windows,  but  fig.  2 is  the 
open  light  of  a belfry  tower,  and  figures  1 and  3 are  in  triforia,  the  lat- 
ter also  occurring  filled,  on  the  central  tower  of  Coutances. 


Note  X. 

Page  94. 

“ Ornaments  of  the  transept  towers  of  Bouen.^' 

The  reader  cannot  but  observe  agreeableness,  as  a mere  arrangement  of 
shade,  which  especially  belongs  to  the  “ sacred  trefoil.”  I do  not  think 
that  the  element  of  foliation  has  been  enough  insisted  upon  in  its  inti- 
mate relations  with  the  power  of  Gothic  work.  If  I were  asked  what 


208 


NOTES. 


was  the  most  distinctive  feature  of  its  perfect  style,  I should  say  the 
Trefoil.  It  is  the  very  soul  of  it  ; and  I think  the  loveliest  Gothic  ia 
always  formed  upon  simple  and  bold  tracings  of  it,  taking  place  between 
the  blank  lancet  arch  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  overcharged  cinque- 
foiled  arch  on  the  other. 


Note  XI. 

Page  95. 

“ And  lexelled  cusps  of  stone. 

The  plate  represents  one  of  the  lateral  windows  of  the  third  story  of 
the  Palazzo  Foscari.  It  was  drawn  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  Grand 
Canal,  and  the  lines  of  its  traceries  are  therefore  given  as  they  appear  in 
somewhat  distant  effect.  It  shows  only  segments  of  the  characteristic 
quatrefoils  of  the  central  windows.  I found  by  measurement  their  con- 
,'<truction  exceedingly  simple.  Four  circles  are  drawn  in  contact  within 
the  large  circle.  Two  tangential  lines  are  then  drawn  to  each  opposite 
pair,  enclosing  the  four  circles  in  a hollow  cross.  An  inner  circle  struck 
through  the  intersections  of  the  circles  by  the  tangents,  truncates  the 
cusps. 


Note  XII. 

Page  124. 

“ Into  vertical  equal  parts.''* 

Not  absolutely  so.  There  are  variations  partly  accidental  (or  at  least 
compelled  by  the  architect’s  effort  to  recover  the  vertical),  between 
the  sides  of  the  stories  ; and  the  upper  and  lower  story  are  taller  than 
the  rest.  There  is,  however,  an  apparent  equality  between  five  but  of 
the  eight  tiers. 


Note  XIIL 
Page  133. 

“ Never  paint  a column  loith  vertical  lines.''* 

It  should  be  observed,  however,  that  any  pattern  which  gives  oppo- 
nent lines  in  its  parts,  may  be  arranged  on  lines  parallel  with  the  main 
structure.  Thus,  rows  of  diamonds,  like  spots  on  a snake’s  back,  or  the 
bones  on  a sturgeon,  are  exquisitely  applied  both  to  vertical  and  spiral 
columns.  The  loveliest  instances  of  such  decoration  that  I know,  are 
the  pillars  of  the  cloister  of  St.  John  Lateran,  lately  illustrated  by  Mr. 
Digby  Wyatt,  in  his  most  valuable  and  faithful  work  on  antique  mo* 
sale. 


NOTES, 


209 


Note  XIV. 

Page  139. 

On  the  cover  of  this  volume  the  reader  will  find  some  figure  outlines 
of  the  same  period  and  character,  from  the  fioor  of  San  Minialo  at  Flor- 
ence. I have  to  thank  its  designer,  Mr.  W.  Harry  Rogers,  for  his  intelli- 
gent arrangement  of  them,  and  graceful  adaptation  of  the  connecting 
arabesque.  (Stamp  on  cloth  cover  of  London  edition.) 


Note  XV. 

Page  169. 

“ Tliefloicers  lost  their  lights  the  river  its  music. 

Yet  not  all  their  light,  nor  all  their  music.  Compare  Modern  Paint- 
ers, vol.  ii.  sec.  1.  chap.  iv.  § 8. 


Note  XVI. 

Page  181. 

“ By  the  artists  of  the  time  of  Pericles.'*'* 

This  subordination  was  first  remarked  to  me  by  a friend,  whose  pro- 
found knowledge  of  Greek  art  will  not,  I trust,  be  reserved  always  for 
the  advantage  of  his  friends  only : Mr.  C.  Newton,  of  the  British  Mu- 
seum. 


Note  XVII. 

Page  188. 

“ In  one  of  the  noblest  poems.'^ 

Coleridge’s  Ode  to  France  : 

“Ye  Clouds ! that  far  above  me  float  and  pause, 
Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  control  I 
Ye  Ocean- Waves  ! that  wheresoe’er  ye  roll. 

Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws  ! 

Ye  Woods ! that  listen  to  the  night-birds  singing, 
Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope  reclined. 
Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches  swinging, 
Have  made  a solemn  music  of  the  wind ! 

Where,  like  a man  beloved  of  God, 

Through  glooms,  which  never  woodman  trod, 

How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  holy. 

My  moonlight  way  o’er  flowering  weeds  I wound, 
Inspired,  beyond  the  guess  of  folly, 

14 


210 


NOTES. 


By  each  rude  shape  and  wild  unconquerable  sound  I 
O ye  loud  Waves  ! and  O ye  Forests  high  ! 

And  O ye  Clouds  that  far  above  me  soared  I 
Thou  rising  Sun  ! thou  blue  rejoicing  Sky  ! 

Yea,  everything  that  is  and  will  be  free! 

Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe’er  ye  be, 

With  what  deep  worship  I have  still  adored 
The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty.” 

Noble  verse,  but  erring  thought : contrast  George  Herbert * 

“ Slight  those  who  say  amidst  their  sickly  healths. 
Thou  livest  by  rule.  What  doth  not  so  but  man  ? 
Houses  are  built  by  rule  and  Commonwealths. 
Entice  the  trusty  sun,  if  that  you  can. 

From  his  ecliptic  line  ; beckon  the  sky. 

Who  lives  by  rule  then,  keeps  good  company. 

Who  keeps  no  guard  upon  himself  is  slack. 

And  rots  to  nothing  at  the  next  great  thaw  ; 

Man  is  a shop  of  rules  ; a well- truss’d  pack 
Wliose  every  parcel  underwrites  a law. 

Lose  not  thyself,  nor  give  thy  humors  way  ; 

God  gave  them  to  thee  under  lock  and  key/’ 


LECTURES 


ON 

ARCHITECTURE  AND  PAINTING 

DELIVERED  AT  EDINBURGH,  IN  NOVEMBER,  1853. 


PEEFACE. 


The  following  Lectures  are  printed,  as  far  as  possible,  just 
as  they  were  delivered.  Here  and  there  a sentence  which 
seemed  obscure  has  been  mended,  and  the  passages  which  had 
not  been  previously  written,  have  been,  of  course  imperfectly, 
supplied  from  memory.  But  I am  well  assured  that  nothing 
of  any  substantial  importance,  which  was  said  in  the  lecture- 
room,  is  either  omitted,  or  altered  in  its  signification,  with 
the  exception  only  of  a few  sentences  struck  out  from  the 
notice  of  the  works  of  Turner,  in  consequence  of  the  impossi- 
bility of  engraving  the  drawings  by  which  they  were  illustrated, 
except  at  a cost  which  would  have  too  much  raised  the  price 
of  the  volume.  Some  elucidatory  remarks  have,  however, 
been  added  at  the  close  of  the  second  and  fourth  Lectures, 
which  I hope  may  be  of  more  use  than  the  passages  which  I 
was  obliged  to  omit. 

The  drawings  by  which  the  Lectures  on  Architecture  were 
illustrated  have  been  carefully  reduced,  and  well  transferred 
to  wood  by  Mr.  Thurston  Thompson.  Those  which  were 
given  in  the  course  of  the  notices  of  schools  of  painting  could 
not  be  so  transferred,  having  been  drawn  in  colour  ; and  I 
have  therefore  merely  had  a few  lines,  absolutely  necessary  to 
make  the  text  intelligible,  copied  from  engravings. 

I forgot,  in  preparing  the  second  Lecture  for  the  press,  to 
quote  a passage  from  Lord  Lindsay’s  “ Christian  Art,”  illus- 
trative of  what  is  said  in  that  lecture  (page  57),  respecting  the 
energy  of  the  mediaeval  republics.  This  passage,  describing 


214 


PREFACE. 


the  circumstances  under  which  the  Campanile  of  the  Duomo 
of  Florence  was  built,  is  interesting  also  as  noticing  the 
universality  of  talent  which  was  required  of  architects  ; and 
which,  as  I have  asserted  in  the  Addenda  (p.  65),  always 
ought  to  be  required  of  them.  I do  not,  however,  now 
regret  the  omission,  as  I cannot  easily  imagine  a better 
preface  to  an  essay  on  civil  architecture  than  this  simple 
statement. 

“In  1332,  Giotto  was  chosen  to  erect  it  (the  campanile),  on 
the  ground,  avowedly,  of  the  universality  of  his  talents,  with 
the  appointment  of  Capo  Maestro,  or  chief  Architect  (chief 
Master,  I should  rather  write),  of  the  Cathedral  and  its  de- 
pendencies, a yearly  salary  of  one  hundred  gold  florins,  and 
the  privilege  of  citizenship,  under  the  special  understanding 
that  he  was  not  to  quit  Florence.  His  designs  being  ap- 
proved of,  the  republic  passed  a decree  in  the  spring  of  1334, 
that  the  Campanile  should  be  built  so  as  to  exceed  in  mag- 
nificence, height,  and  excellence  of  workmanship  whatever  in 
that  kind  had  been  achieved  by  the  Greeks  and  Romans  in 
the  time  of  their  utmost  power  and  greatness.  The  first 
stone  was  laid,  accordingly,  with  great  pomp,  on  the  18th  of 
July  following,  and  the  work  prosecuted  with  vigour,  and  with 
such  costliness  and  utter  disregard  of  expense,  that  a citizen 
of  Verona,  looking  on,  exclaimed  that  the  republic  was  taxing 
her  strength  too  far,  that  the  united  resources  of  two  great 
monarchs  would  be  insufficient  to  complete  it ; a criticism 
which  the  Signoria  resented  by  confining  him  for  two  months 
in  prison,  and  afterwards  conducting  him  through  the  public 
treasury,  to  teach  him  that  the  Florentines  could  build  their 
whole  city  of  marble,  and  not  one  poor  steeple  only,  were 
they  so  inclined.” 

I see  that  “ The  Builder,”  vol.  xi.  page  690,  has  been  en- 
deavouring to  inspire  the  citizens  of  Leeds  with  some  pride 


PREFACE. 


215 


of  this  kind  respecting  their  town-hall.  The  pride  would  bo 
well,  but  I sincere^  trust  that  the  tower  in  question  may  not 
be  built  on  the  design  there  proposed.  I am  sorry  to  have  to 
write  a special  criticism,  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  the 
best  w’orks,  by  the  best  men  living,  are  in  this  age  abused 
without  mercy  by  nameless  critics  ; and  it  would  be  unjust 
to  the  public,  if  those  who  have  given  their  names  as  guar- 
antee for  their  sincerity  never  had  the  courage  to  enter  a pro- 
test against  the  execution  of  designs  which  appear  to  them 
unworthy. 

Denmark  Hill, 

16th  April,  1854* 


LECTURES 


ON 

ARCHITECTURE  AND  PAINTING. 


LECTUKE  I. 

I THINK  myself  peculiarly  happy  in  being  permitted  to  ad- 
dress the  citizens  of  Edinburgh  on  the  subject  of  architecture, 
for  it  is  one  which,  they  cannot  but  feel,  interests  them  nearly. 
Of  all  the  cities  in  the  British  Islands,  Edinburgh  is  the  one 
which  presents  most  advantages  for  the  display  of  a noble 
building  ; and  which,  on  the  other  hand,  sustains  most  injury 
in  the  erection  of  a commonplace  or  unworthy  one.  You  are 
all  proud  of  your  city  : surely  you  must  feel  it  a duty  in  some 
sort  to  justify  your  pride  ; that  is  to  say,  to  give  yourselves  a 
right  to  be  proud  of  it.  That  you  were  born  under  the  shadow 
of  its  two  fantastic  mountains, — that  you  live  where  from 
your  room  windows  you  can  trace  the  shores  of  its  glittering 
Firth,  are  no  rightful  subjects  of  pride.  You  did  not  raise 
the  mountains,  nor  shape  the  shores ; and  the  historical 
houses  of  your  Canongate,  and  the  broad  battlements  of  your 
castle,  reflect  honour  upon  you  only  through  your  ancestors. 
Before  you  boast  of  your  city,  before  even  you  venture  to  call 
it  yours,  ought  you  not  scrupulously  to  weigh  the  exact  share 
you  have  had  in  adding  to  it  or  adorning  it,  to  calculate  seri- 
ously the  influence  upon  its  aspect  which  the  work  of  your 
own  hands  has  exercised  ? I do  not  say  that,  even  when  you 


218 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


regard  your  city  in  this  scrupulous  and  testing  spirit,  you 
have  not  considerable  ground  for  exultation.  As  far  as  I am 
acquainted  with  modern  architecture,  I am  aware  of  no  streets 
which,  in  simplicity  and  manliness  of  style,  or  general  breadth 
and  brightness  of  effect  equal  those  of  the  New  Town  of  Edin- 
burgh. But  yet  I am  well  persuaded  that  as  you  traverse 
tliose  streets,  your  feelings  of  pleasure  and  pride  in  them  are 
much  complicated  with  those  which  are  excited  entirely  by 
the  surrounding  scenery.  As  you  walk  up  or  down  George 
Street,  for  instance,  do  you  not  look  eagerly  for  every  open- 
ing to  the  north  and  south,  which  lets  in  the  lustre  of  the 
Firth  of  Forth,  or  the  rugged  outline  of  the  Castle  rock? 
Take  away  the  sea-waves,  and  the  dark  basalt,  and  I fear  you 
would  find  little  to  interest  you  in  George  Street  by  itself. 
Now  I remember  a city,  more  nobly  placed  even  than  yonr 
Edinburgh,  which,  instead  of  the  valley  that  you  have  now  filled 
by  lines  of  railroad,  has  a broad  and  rushing  river  of  blue 
water  sweeping  through  the  heart  of  it ; which,  for  the  dark 
and  solitary  rock  that  bears  your  castle,  has  an  amphitheatre 
of  clifife  crested  with  cypresses  and  olive  ; which,  for  the  two 
masses  of  Arthur’s  Seat  and  the  ranges  of  the  Pentlands,  has 
a chain  of  blue  mountains  higher  than  the  haughtiest  peaks 
of  your  Highlands ; and  which,  for  your  far-away  Ben  Ledi 
and  Ben  More,  has  the  great  central  chain  of  the  St.  Gothard 
Alps : and  yet,  as  you  go  out  of  the  gates,  and  walk  in  the 
suburban  streets  of  that  city — I mean  Verona — the  eye  never 
seeks  to  rest  on  that  external  scenery,  however  gorgeous  ; it 
does  not  look  for  the  gaps  between  the  houses,  as  you  do  here : 
it  may  for  a few  moments  follow  the  broken  line  of  the  great 
Alpine  battlements  ; but  it  is  only  where  they  form  a back- 
ground for  other  battlements,  built  by  the  hand  of  man. 
There  is  no  necessity  felt  to  dwell  on  the  blue  river  or  the 
burning  hills.  The  heart  and  eye  have  enough  to  do  in  the 
streets  of  the  city  itself ; they  are  contented  there ; nay,  they 
sometimes  turn  from  the  natural  scenery,  as  if  too  savage  and 
solitary,  to  dwell  with  a deeper  interest  on  the  palace  walls 
that  cast  their  shade  upon  the  streets,  and  the  crowd  of  tow- 
ers that  rise  out  of  that  shadow'  into  the  depth  of  the  sky. 


AND  DAINTINO. 


210 


That  is  a city  to  be  proud  of,  indeed ; and  it  is  this  kind 
of  architectural  dignity  which  you  should  aim  at,  in  what 
you  add  to  Edinburgh  or  rebuild  in  it.  For  remember,  you 
must  either  help  your  scenery  or  destroy  it ; wdiatever  you 
do  has  an  effect  of  one  kind  or  the  other  ; it  is  never  indiff 
ferent.  But,  above  all,  remember  that  it  is  chiefly  by  pri- 
vate, not  by  public,  effort  that  your  city  must  be  adorned. 
It  does  not  matter  how  many  beautiful  public  buildings  you 
possess,  if  they  are  not  supported  by,  and  in  harmony  with, 
the  private  houses  of  the  town.  Neither  the  mind  nor  the 
eye  will  accept  a new  college,  or  a new  hospital,  or  a new  in- 
stitution, for  a city.  It  is  the  Canongate,  and  the  Princes 
Street,  and  the  High  Street  that  are  Edinburgh.  It  is  in 
your  own  private  houses  that  the  real  majesty  of  Edinburgh 
must  consist ; and,  what  is  more,  it  must  be  by  your  own 
personal  interest  that  the  style  of  the  architecture  which  rises 
around  you  must  be  principally  guided.  Do  not  think  that 
you  can  have  good  architecture  merely  by  paying  for  it.  It 
is  not  by  subscribing  liberally  for  a large  building  once  in 
forty  years  that  you  can  call  up  architects  and  inspiration. 
It  is  only  by  active  and  sympathetic  attention  to  the  domes- 
tic and  every  day  work  which  is  done  for  each  of  you,  that 
you  can  educate  either  yourselves  to  the  feeling,  or  your 
builders  to  the  doing,  of  what  is  truly  great. 

Well  but,  you  will  answer,  you  cannot  feel  interested  in 
architecture  : you  do  not  care  about  it,  and  cannot  care  about 
it.  I know  you  cannot.  About  such  architecture  as  is  built 
now-a-days,  no  mortal  ever  did  or  could  care.  You  do  not 
feel  interested  in  hearing  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again  ; 
— why  do  you  suppose  you  can  feel  interested  in  seeing  the 
same  thing  over  and  over  again,  were  that  thing  even  the 
best  and  most  beautiful  in  the  world  ? Now,  you  all  know 
the  kind  of  window  which  you  usually  build  in  Edinburgh  : 
here  is  an  example  of  the  head  of  one  {fig.  1.),  a massy  lintel 
of  a single  stone,  laid  across  from  side  to  side,  with  bold 
square-cut  jambs — in  fact,  the  simplest  form  it  is  possible  to 
build.  It  is  by  no  means  a bad  form  ; on  the  contrary,  it  is 
very  manly  and  vigorous,  and  has  a certain  dignity  in  its 


220 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


utter  refusal  of  ornament.  But  I cannot  say  it  is  entertain- 
ing. How  many  windows  precisely  of  this  form  do  you  sup- 
pose there  are  in  the  New  Town  of  Edinburgh  ? I have  not 
counted  them  all  through  the  town,  but  I counted  them  this 
morning  along  this  very  Queen  Street,  in  which  your  Hall  is  ; 
and  on  the  one  side  of  that  street,  there  are  of  these  windows, 
absolutely  similar  to  this  example,  and  altogether  devoid  of 
any  relief  by  decoration,  six  hundred  and  seventy-eight.^ 
And  your  decorations  are  just  as  monotonous  as  your  sim- 
plicities. How  many  Corinthian  and  Doric  columns  do  you 
think  there  are  in  your  banks,  and  post-offices,  institutions, 
and  I know  not  what  else,  one  exactly  like  another  ? — and  yet 
you  expect  to  be  interested  ! Nay,  but,  you  will  answer  me 
again,  we  see  sunrises  and  sunsets,  and  violets  and  roses, 
over  and  over  again,  and  we  do  not  tire  of  them.  What ! 
did  you  ever  see  one  sunrise  like  another?  does  not  God 
vary  his  clouds  for  you  every  morning  and  every  night? 
though,  indeed,  there  is  enough  in  the  disappearing  and  ap- 
pearing of  the  great  orb  above  the  rolling  of  the  world,  to 
interest  all  of  us,  one  would  think,  for  as  many  times  as  we 
shall  see  it ; and  yet  the  aspect  of  it  is  changed  for  us  daily. 
You  see  violets  and  roses  often,  and  are  not  tired  of  them. 
True ! but  you  did  not  often  see  two  roses  alike,  or,  if  you 
did,  you  took  care  not  to  put  them  beside  each  other  in  the 
same  nosegay,  for  fear  your  nosegay  should  be  uninterest- 
ing ; and  yet  you  think  you  can  put  150,000  square  windows 
side  by  side  in  the  same  streets,  and  still  be  interested  by 
them.  Why,  if  I were  to  say  the  same  thing  over  and  over 
again,  for  the  single  hour  you  are  going  to  let  me  talk  to 
you,  would  you  listen  to  me?  and  yet  you  let  your  architects 
do  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again  for  three  centuries, 
and  expect  to  be  interested  by  their  architecture  ; with  a far- 
ther disadvantage  on  the  side  of  the  builder,  as  compared 
with  the  speaker,  that  my  wasted  words  would  cost  you  but 
little,  but  his  wasted  stones  have  cost  you  no  small  part  of 
your  incomes. 

* Including  York  Place  and  Picardy  Place,  but  not  counting  any  win- 
dow which  has  mouldings. 


AND  PAINTING, 


221 


Well,  but,”  you  still  think  within  yourselves,  ‘‘it  is  not 
right  that  architecture  should  be  interesting.  It  is  a very 
grand  thing,  this  architecture,  but  essentially  unentertain- 
ing. It  is  its  duty  to  be  dull,  it  is  monotonous  by  law  : it 
cannot  be  correct  and  yet  amusing.” 

Believe  me,  it  is  not  so.  All  things  that  are  worth  doing 
in  art,  are  interesting  and  attractive  when  they  are  done. 
There  is  no  law  of  right  which  consecrates  dulness.  The 
proof  of  a thing’s  being  right  is,  that  it  has  power  over  the 
heart ; that  it  excites  us,  wins  us,  or  helps  us.  I do  not  say 
that  it  has  influence  over  all,  but  it  has  over  a large  class,  one 
kind  of  art  being  fit  for  one  class,  and  another  for  another  ; 
and  there  is  no  goodness  in  art  which  is  independent  of  the 
power  of  pleasing.  Yet,  do  not  mistake  me  ; I do  not  mean 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  neglect  of  the  best  art,  or  de- 
light in  the  worst,  just  as  many  men  neglect  nature,  and  feed 
upon  what  is  artificial  and  base  ; but  I mean,  that  all  good 
art  has  the  capacity  of  pleasing,  if  people  will  attend  to  it  ; 
that  there  is  no  law  against  its  pleasing  ; but,  on  the  con- 
trary, something  wrong  either  in  the  spectator  or  the  art, 
when  it  ceases  to  please.  Now,  therefore,  if  you  feel  that 
your  present  school  of  architecture  is  unattractive  to  you,  I 
say  there  is  something  wrong,  either  in  the  architecture  or  in 
you ; and  I trust  you  will  not  think  I mean  to  flatter  you 
when  I tell  you,  that  the  wrong  is  not  in  you,  but  in  the 
architecture.  Look  at  this  for  a moment  [fig.  2.);  it  is  a 
window  actually  existing — a window  of  an  English  domestic 
building  — a window  built  six  hundred  years  ago.  You  will 
not  tell  me  you  have  no  pleasure  in  looking  at  this  ; or  that 
you  could  not,  by  any  possibility,  become  interested  in  the 
art  which  produced  it ; or  that,  if  every  window  in  your 
streets  were  of  some  such  form,  with  perpetual  change  in 
their  ornaments,  you  would  pass  up  and  down  the  street  with 
as  much  indifference  as  now,  when  your  windows  are  of  this 
form  [fig.  1.).  Can  you  for  an  instant  suppose  that  the  archi- 
tect was  a greater  or  wiser  man  who  built  this,  than  he  who 

* Oakham  Castle.  I have  enlarged  this  illustration  from  Mr,  Hudson 
Turner’s  admirable  work  on  the  domestic  architecture  of  England. 


LECTURES  ON  ARCUITEGTURE 


2i^2 

built  tliat  ? or  that  in  the  arrangement  of  these  dull  and  monot- 
onous stones  there  is  more  wit  and  sense  than  you  can  pene- 
trate ? Believe  me,  the  wrong  is  not  in  you  ; you  would  all  like 
the  best  things  best,  if  you  only  saw  them.  What  is  wrong  in 
you  is  your  temper,  not  your  taste  ; your  patient  and  trust- 
ful temper,  which  lives  in  houses  whose  architecture  it  takes 
for  granted,  and  subscribes  to  public  edifices  from  which  it 
derives  no  enjoyment. 

“Well,  but  what  are  w’e  to  do?”  you  will  say  to  me  ; we 
cannot  make  architects  of  ourselves.  Pardon  me,  you  can — 
and  you  ought.  Architecture  is  an  art  for  all  men  to  learn, 
because  all  are  concerned  with  it ; and  it  is  so  simple,  that 
there  is  no  excuse  for  not  being  acquainted  with  its  primary 
rules,  any  more  than  for  ignorance  of  grammar  or  of  spell- 
ing, which  are  both  of  them  far  more  difficult  sciences.  Far 
less  trouble  than  is  necessary  to  learn  how  to  play  chess,  or 
whist,  or  goff,  tolerably, — far  less  than  a schoolboy  takes  to 
win  the  meanest  prize  of  the  passing  year,  would  acquaint 
you  with  all  the  main  principles  of  the  construction  of  a 
Gothic  cathedral,  and  I believe  you  would  hardly  find  the 
study  less  amusing.  But  be  that  as  it  may,  there  are  one  or 
two  broad  principles  which  need  only  be  stated  to  be  under- 
stood and  accepted  ; and  those  I mean  to  lay  before  you, 
with  your  permission,  before  you  leave  this  room. 

You  must  all,  of  course,  have  observed  that  the  principal 
distinctions  between  existing  styles  of  architecture  depend  on 
their  methods  of  roofing  any  space,  as  a window  or  door  for 
instance,  or  a space  between  pillars  ; that  is  to  say,  that  the 
character  of  Greek  architecture,  and  of  all  that  is  derived 
from  it,  depends  on  its  roofing  a space  with  a single  stone 
laid  from  side  to  side  ; the  character  of  Koman  architecture, 
and  of  all  derived  from  it,  depends  on  its  roofing  spaces  with 
round  arches ; and  the  character  of  Gothic  architecture  de- 
pends on  its  roofing  spaces  with  pointed  arches  or  gables.  I 
need  not,  of  course,  in  any  way  follow  out  for  you  the  mode 
in  which  the  Greek  system  of  architecture  is  derived  from 
the  horizontal  lintel  ; but  I ought  perhaps  to  explain,  that  by 
Roman  architecture  I do  not  mean  that  sj^urious  condition 


AND  PAINTING. 


223 


of  temple  form  which  was  nothing  more  than  a luscious  imi- 
tation of  the  Greek  ; hut  I mean  that  architecture  in  which 
the  Koman  spirit  truly  manifested  itself,  the  magnificent 
vaultings  of  the  aqueduct  and  the  bath,  and  the  colossal 
heaping  of  the  rough  stones  in  the  arches  of  the  amphh 
theatre  ; an  architecture  full  of  expression  of  gigantic  power 
and  strength  of  will,  and  from  which  are  directly  derived  all 
our  most  impressive  early  buildings,  called,  as  you  know,  by 
various  antiquaries,  Saxon,  Norman,  or  Komanesque.  No^v 
the  first  point  I wish  to  insist  upon  is,  that  the  Greek  system, 
considered  merely  as  a piece  of  construction,  is  weak  and 
barbarous  compared  with  the  two  others.  For  instance,  in 
the  case  of  a large  window  or  door,  such  as  fig.  1,  if  you  have 
at  your  disposal  a single  large  and  long  stone  you  may  indeed 
roof  it  in  the  Greek  manner,  as  you  have  done  here,  with  com- 
parative security  ; but  it  is  always  expensive  to  obtain  and  to 
raise  to  their  place  stones  of  this  large  size,^and  in  many 
places  nearly  impossible  to  obtain  them  at  all ; and  if  you 
have  not  such  stones,  and  still  insist  upon  roofing  the  space  in 
the  Greek  way,  that  is  to  sa}’’,  upon  having  a square  mndow, 
you  must  do  it  by  the  miserable  feeble  adjustment  of  bricks, 
fig.  3."^  You  are  well  aware,  of  course,  that  this  latter  is  the 
usual  way  in  which  such  windows  are  now  built  in  England  ; 
you  are  fortunate  enough  here  in  the  north  to  be  able  to  ob- 
tain single  stones,  and  this  circumstance  alone  gives  a con- 
siderable degree  of  grandeur  to  your  buildings.  But  in  all 
cases,  and  however  built,  you  cannot  but  see  in  a moment 
that  this  cross  bar  is  weak  and  imperfect.  It  may  be  strong 
enough  for  all  immediate  intents  and  purposes,  but  it  is  not  so 
strong  as  it  might  be  : however  well  the  house  is  built,  it  will 
still  not  stand  so  long  as  if  it  had  been  better  constructed  ; and 
there  is  hardly  a day  passes  but  you  may  see  some  rent  or  fliaw 
in  bad  buildings  of  this  kind.  You  may  see  one  whenever  you 
choose  in  one  of  your  most  costly,  and  most  ugly  buildings, 
the  great  church  with  the  dome,  at  the  end  of  George  Street. 
I think  I never  saw  a building  with  the  principal  entrance  so 
utterly  ghastly  and  oppressive  ; and  it  is  as  weak  as  it  is 
* On  this  subject  see  “ The  Builder,”  vol.  xi.  p.  709, 


224 


LECTURES  ON  ARCIIITECTURE 


glifxstly.  The  huge  horizontal  lintel  above  the  door  is  already 
split  right  through.  But  you  are  not  aware  of  a thousandth 
part  of  the  evil : the  pieces  of  building  that  you  see  are  all 
carefully  done  ; it  is  in  the  parts  that  are  to  be  concealed  by 
paint  and  plaster  that  the  bad  building  of  the  day  is  thor- 
oughly committed.  The  main  mischief  lies  in  the  strange 
devices  that  are  used  to  support  the  long  horizontal  cross 
beams  of  our  larger  apartments  and  shops,  and  tlie  frame- 
work of  unseen  walls  ; girders  and  ties  of  cast  iron,  and  props 
and  wedges,  and  laths  nailed  and  bolted  together,  on  mar- 
vellously scientific  j^rinciples ; so  scientific,  that  every  now 
and  then,  when  some  tender  reparation  is  undertaken  by  the 
unconscious  householder,  the  whole  house  crashes  into  a heap 
of  ruin,  so  total,  that  the  jury  which  sits  on  the  bodies  of  the 
inhabitants  cannot  tell  what  has  been  the  matter  with  it,  and 
returns  a dim  verdict  of  accidental  death.  Did  you  read  the 
account  of  the  proceedings  at  the  Crystal  Palace  at  Sydenham 
the  other  day  ? Some  dozen  of  men  crushed  up  among  the 
splinters  of  the  scaffolding  in  an  instant,  nobody  knew  why. 
All  the  engineers  declare  the  scaffolding  to  have  been  erected 
on  the  best  principles, — that  the  fall  of  it  is  as  much  a mys- 
tery as  if  it  had  fallen  from  heaven,  and  were  all  meteoric 
stones.  The  jury  go  to  Sydenham  and  look  at  the  heap  of 
shattered  bolts  and  girders,  and  come  back  as  wise  as  they 
went.  Accidental  death.  Yes  verily  ; the  lives  of  all  those 
dozen  of  men  had  been  hanging  for  months  at  the  mercy  of 
a flaw  in  an  inch  or  two  of  cast  iron.  Very  accidental  in- 
deed ! Not  the  less  pitiable.  I grant  it  not  to  be  an  easy 
thing  to  raise  scaffolding  to  the  height  of  the  Crystal  Palace 
without  incurring  some  danger,  but  that  is  no  reason  why  your 
houses  should  all  be  nothing  but  scaffolding.  The  common 
system  of  support  of  walls  over  shops  is  now  nothing  but 
permanent  scaffolding ; part  of  iron,  part  of  wood,  part  of 
brick ; in  its  skeleton  state  awful  to  behold  ; the  weight  of 
three  or  four  stories  of  wall  resting  sometimes  on  two  or  three 
pillars  of  the  size  of  gas  pipes,  sometimes  on  a single  cross 
beam  of  wood,  laid  across  from  party  wall  to  party  wall  in 
the  Greek  manner.  I have  a vivid  recollection  at  this  mo- 


AND  PAINTING. 


225 


merit  of  fi  vast  heap  of  splinters  in  the  Borough  Koad,  close 
to  St.  George’s  Southwark,  in  the  road  between  my  own 
house  and  London.  I had  passed  it  the  day  before,  a goodly 
shop  front,  and  sufficient  house  above,  with  a few  repairs  un- 
dertaken in  the  shop  before  opening  a new  business.  The 
master  and  mistress  had  found  it  dusty  that  afternoon,  and 
went  out  to  tea.  A¥hen  they  came  back  in  the  evening,  they 
found  their  wdiole  house  in  the  form  of  a heap  of  bricks 
blocking  the  roadway,  with  a party  of  men  digging  out  their 
cook.  But  I do  not  insist  on  casualties  like  these,  disgrace- 
ful to  us  as  they  are,  for  it  is,  of  course,  perfectly  possible  to 
build  a perfectly  secure  house  or  a secure  window  in  the 
Greek  manner ; but  the  simple  fact  is,  that  in  order  to  ob- 
tain in  the  cross  lintel  the  same  amount  of  strength  which 
you  can  obtain  in  a pointed  arch,  you  must  go  to  an  im- 
mensely greater  cost  in  stone  or  in  labour.  Stonehenge  is 
strong  enough,  but  it  takes  some  trouble  to  build  in  the  man- 
ner of  Stonehenge  ; and  Stonehenge  itself  is  not  so  strong  as 
an  arch  of  the  Colosseum.  You  could  not  raise  a circle  of 
four  Stonehenges,  one  over  the  other,  with  safety  ; and  as  it 
is,  more  of  the  cross-stones  are  fallen  upon  the  plain  of  Sarum 
than  arches  rent  away,  except  by  the  hand  of  man,  from  the 
mighty  circle  of  Borne.  But  I waste  words  ; — your  own  com- 
mon sense  must  show  you  in  a moment  that  this  is  a weak 
form  ; and  there  is  not  at  this  instant  a single  street  in 
London  where  some  house  could  not  be  pointed  out  with  a 
flaw  running  through  its  brickwork,  and  repairs  rendered 
necessary  in  consequence,  merety  owing  to  the  adoption  of 
this  bad  form  ; and  that  our  builders  know  so  well,  that  in 
myriads  of  instances  you  find  them  actually  throwing  con- 
cealed arches  above  the  horizontal  lintels  to  take  the  weight 
off  them  ; and  the  gabled  decoration  at  the  top  of  some  Pal- 
ladian  windows,  is  merely  the  ornamental  form  resulting  from 
a bold  device  of  the  old  Boman  builders  to  effect  the  same 
purpose. 

But  there  is  a farther  reason  for  our  adopting  the  pointed 
arch  than  its  being  the  strongest  form  ; it  is  also  the  most 
beautiful  form  in  which  a window  or  door-head  can  be  built 


220 


LECTUllES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


Not  the  most  beautiful  because  it  is  the  strongest ; but  most 
beautiful,  because  its  form  is  one  of  those  which,  as  we  know 
by  its  frequent  occurrence  in  the  work  of  nature  around  us, 
has  been  a2)pointed  by  the  Deity  to  be  an  everlasting  source 
of  pleasure  to  the  human  mind. 

Gather  a branch  from  any  of  the  trees  or  flowers  to  which 
the  earth  owes  its  principal  beauty.  You  will  find  that  every 
one  of  its  leaves  is  terminated,  more  or  less,  in  the  form  of 
the  j^ointed  arch  ; and  to  that  form  owes  its  grace  and  char- 
acter. I will  take,  for  instance,  a spray  of  the  tree  which  so 
gracefully  adorns  your  Scottish  glens  and  crags — there  is  no 
lovelier  in  the  world — the  common  ash.  Here  is  a sketch  of 
the  clusters  of  leaves  which  form  the  extremity  of  one  of  its 
young  shoots  {fig.  4.)  ; and,  by  the  way,  it  wall  furnish  us  with 
an  interesting  illustration  of  another  error  in  modern  archi- 
tectural systems.  You  know  how  fond  modern  architects,  like 
foolish  modern  politicians,  are  of  their  equalities,  and  simi- 
larities ; how  necessary  they  think  it  that  each  part  of  a 
building  should  be  like  every  other  part.  Now  Nature  abhors 
equality,  and  similitude,  just  as  much  as  foolish  men  love 
them.  You  will  find  that  the  ends  of  the  shoots  of  the  ash 
are  composed  of  four  green  stalks  bearing  leaves,  spring- 
ing in  the  form  of  a cross,  if  seen  from  above,  as  in  fig.  5., 
Plate  I.,  and  at  first  you  will  suppose  the  four  arms  of  the 
cross  are  equal.  But  look  more  closely,  and  you  will  find  that 
two  opposite  arms  or  stalks  have  only  five  leaves  each,  and 
the  other  two  have  seven,  or  else,  two  have  seven,  and  the 
other  two  nine  ; but  always  one  pair  of  stalks  has  two  leaves 
more  than  the  other  pair.  Sometimes  the  tree  gets  a little 
puzzled,  and  forgets  which  is  to  be  the  longest  stalk,  and  be- 
gins with  a stem  for  seven  leaves  where  it  should  have  nine, 
and  then  recollects  itself  at  the  last  minute,  and  puts  on  an- 
other leaf  in  a great  hurry,  and  so  produces  a stalk  with  eight 
leaves  ; but  all  this  care  it  takes  merely  to  keep  itself  out  of 
equalities  ; and  all  its  grace  and  power  of  pleasing  are  owing 

* Sometimes  of  six  ; that  is  to  say,  tiiey  spring  in  pairs  ; only  the  two 
uppermost  pairs,  sometimes  the  three  uppermost,  spring  so  close  together 
as  to  appear  one  cluster. 


AND  PAINTING. 


227 


to  its  doing  so,  together  with  the  lovely  curves  in  which  its 
stalks,  thus  arranged,  spring  from  the  main  bough.  Fig.  5. 
is  a plan  of  their  arrangement  merely,  but  fig.  4.  is  the  way 
in  which  you  are  most  likely  to  see  them  : and  observe,  they 
spring  from  the  precisely  as  a Gothic  vaulted  roof  springs^ 
each  stalk  representing  a rib  of  the  roof,  and  the  leaves  its 
crossing  stones  ; and  the  beauty  of  each  of  those  leaves  is  al- 
together owing  to  its  terminating  in  the  Gothic  form,  the 
pointed  arch.  Now  do  you  think  you  would  have  liked  your 
ash  trees  as  well,  if  Nature  had  taught  them  Greek,  and  shown 
them  how  to  grow  according  to  the  received  Attic  architectural 
rules  of  right  ? I will  try  you.  Here  is  a cluster  of  ash  leaves, 
which  I have  grown  expressly  for  you  on  Greek  principles 
(fig.  6.,  Plate  HI.).  How  do  you  like  it? 

Observe,  I have  played  you  no  trick  in  this  comparison.  It 
is  perfectly  fair  in  aU  respects.  I have  merely  substituted 
for  the  beautiful  spring  of  the  Gothic  vaulting  in  the  ash 
bough,  a cross  lintel,  and  then,  in  order  to  raise  the  leaves  to 
the  same  height,  I introduce  vertical  columns,  and  I make 
the  leaves  square-headed  instead  of  pointed,  and  their  lateral 
ribs  at  right  angles  with  the  central  rib,  instead  of  sloping 
from  it.  I have,  indeed,  only  given  you  two  boughs  instead 
of  four  ; because  the  perspective  of  the  crossing  ones  could 
not  have  been  given  without  confusing  the  figure  ; but  I im- 
agine you  have  quite  enough  of  them  as  it  is. 

Nay,  but  some  of  you  instantly  answer,  if  we  had  been  as 
long  accustomed  to  square-leaved  ash  trees  as  we  have  been 
to  sharp-leaved  ash  trees,  we  should  like  them  just  as  well. 
Do  not  think  it.  Are  you  not  much  more  accustomed  to  grey 
whinstone  and  brown  sandstone  than  you  are  to  rubies  or 
emeralds?  and  yet  wall  you  tell  me  you  think  them  as  beau- 
tiful ? Are  you  not  more  accustomed  to  the  ordinary  voices 
of  men  than  to  the  perfect  accents  of  sweet  singing  ? yet  do 
you  not  instantly  declare  the  song  to  be  loveliest  ? Examine 
well  the  channels  of  your  admiration,  and  you  wiU  find  that 
they  are,  in  verity,  as  unchangeable  as  the  channels  of  your 
heart’s  blood  ; that  just  as  by  the  pressure  of  a bandage,  or 
by  unwholesome  and  perpetual  action  of  some  part  of  the 


228 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


body,  that  blood  may  be  wasted  or  arrested,  and  in  its  stag- 
nancy cease  to  nourish  the  frame  or  in  its  disturbed  flow  af- 
fect it  with  incurable  disease,  so  also  admiration  itself  may 
by  the  bandages  of  fashion,  bound  close  over  the  eyes  and 
the  arteries  of  the  soul,  be  arrested  in  its  natural  pulse  and 
healthy  flow  ; but  that  wherever  the  artificial  pressure  is  re- 
moved, it  will  return  into  that  bed  which  has  been  traced  for 
it  by  the  finger  of  God. 

Consider  this  subject  well,  and  you  wall  find  that  custom 
has  indeed  no  real  influence  upon  our  feelings  of  the  beauti- 
ful, except  in  dulling  and  checking  them  ; that  is  to  say,  it 
will  and  does,  as  we  advance  in  years,  deaden  in  some  degree 
our  enjoyment  of  all  beauty,  but  it  in  no  wise  influences  our 
determination  of  what  is  beautiful  and  what  is  not.  You  see 
the  broad  blue  sky  every  day  over  your  heads  ; but  you  do 
not  for  that  reason  determine  blue  to  be  less  or  more  beauti- 
ful than  you  did  at  first ; you  are  unaccustomed  to  see  stones 
as  blue  as  the  sapphire,  but  you  do  not  for  that  reason  think 
the  sapphire  less  beautiful  than  other  stones.  The  blue  col- 
our is  everlastingly  appointed  by  the  Deity  to  be  a source  of 
delight ; and  whether  seen  perpetually  over  your  head,  or 
crystallised  once  in  a thousand  years  into  a single  and  incom- 
parable stone,  your  acknowdedgment  of  its  beauty  is  equally 
natural,  simple,  and  instantaneous.  Pardon  me  for  engaging 
you  in  a metaphysical  discussion  ; for  it  is  necessary  to  the 
estabhshment  of  some  of  the  greatest  of  all  architectural 
principles  that  I should  fully  convince  you  of  this  great  truth, 
and  that  I should  quite  do  aw^ay  with  the  various  objections  to 
it,  which  I suppose  must  arise  in  your  minds.  Of  these  there 
is  one  more  which  I must  briefly  meet.  You  know  how  much 
confusion  has  been  introduced  into  the  subject  of  criticism, 
by  reference  to  the  power  of  Association  over  the  human 
heart ; you  know  how  often  it  has  been  said  that  custom 
must  have  something  to  do  with  our  ideas  of  beauty,  because 
it  endears  so  many  objects  to  the  affections.  But,  once  for 
all,  observe  that  the  powers  of  association  and  of  beauty  are 
two  entirely  distinct  powers, — as  distinct,  for  instance,  as  the 
forces  of  gravitation  and  electricity.  These  forces  may  act 


AND  PAINTING. 


229 


together,  or  may  neutralise  one  another,  but  are  not  for  that 
reason  to  be  supposed  the  same  force  ; and  the  charm  of 
association  will  sometimes  enhance,  and  sometimes  entirely 
overpower,  that  of  beauty  ; but  you  must  not  confound  the  two 
together.  You  love  many  things  because  you  are  accustomed  to 
them,  and  are  pained  by  many  things  because  they  are  strange 
to  you  ; but  that  does  not  make  the  accustomed  sight  more 
beautiful,  or  the  strange  one  less  so.  The  well  known  object 
maj’’  be  dearer  to  you,  or  you  may  have  discovered  charms 
in  it  which  others  cannot ; but  the  charm  was  there  before 
you  discovered  it,  only  needing  time  and  love  to  perceive  it. 
You  love  your  friends  and  relations  more  than  all  the  world 
beside,  and  may  perceive  beauties  in  their  faces  which  others 
cannot  perceive  ; but  you  feel  that  you  would  be  ridiculous  in 
allowing  yourselves  to  think  them  the  most  beautiful  persons 
in  the  world : you  acknowledge  that  the  real  beauty  of  the 
human  countenance  depends  on  fixed  laws  of  form  and  ex- 
pression, and  not  on  the  affection  you  bear  to  it,  or  the  degree 
in  which  you  are  familiarised  with  it : and  so  does  the  beauty 
of  all  other  existences. 

Now,  therefore,  I think  that,  without  the  risk  of  any  farther 
serious  objection  occurring  to  you,  I may  state  what  I believe 
to  be  the  truth,— that  beauty  has  been  appointed  by  the 
Deity  to  be  one  of  the  elements  by  which  the  human  soul  is 
continually  sustained  ; it  is  therefore  to  be  found  more  or  less 
in  all  natural  objects,  but  in  order  that  we  may  not  satiate 
ourselves  with  it,  and  weary  of  it,  it  is  rarely  granted  to  us  in 
its  utmost  degrees.  When  we  see  it  in  those  utmost  degrees, 
we  are  attracted  to  it  strongly,  and  remember  it  long,  as  in 
the  case  of  singularly  beautiful  scenery,  or  a beautiful  coun- 
cenance.  On  the  other  hand,  absolute  ugliness  is  admitted  as 
rarely  as  perfect  beauty  ; but  degrees  of  it  more  or  less  dis- 
tinct are  associated  with  whatever  has  the  nature  of  death 
and  sin,  just  as  beauty  is  associated  with  what  has  the  nature 
of  virtue  and  of  hfe. 

This  being  so,  you  see  that  when  the  relative  beauty  of  any 
particular  forms  has  to  be  examined,  we  may  reason,  from  the 
forms  of  nature  around  us,  in  this  manner : — what  nature 


230 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


does  generally,  is  sure  to  be  more  or  less  beautiful ; what  she 
does  rarely,  will  either  be  very  beautiful,  or  absolutely  ugly  ; 
and  we  may  again  easily  determine,  if  we  are  not  willing  in 
such  a case  to  trust  our  feelings,  which  of  these  is  indeed  the 
case,  by  this  simple  rule,  that  if  the  rare  occurrence  is  the 
result  of  the  complete  fulfilment  of  a natural  law,  it  will  be 
beautiful ; if  of  the  violation  of  a natural  law,  it  will  be  ugly. 
For  instance,  a sapphire  is  the  result  of  the  complete  and 
perfect  fulfdment  of  the  laws  of  aggregation  in  the  earth  of 
alumina,  and  it  is  therefore  beautiful ; more  beautiful  than 
clay,  or  any  other  of  the  conditions  of  that  earth.  But  a 
square  leaf  on  any  tree  would  be  ugly,  being  a violation  of  the 
laws  of  grow'th  in  trees,^  and  we  ought  to  feel  it  so. 

Now,  then,  I proceed  to  argue  in  this  manner  from  what 
we  see  in  the  woods  and  fields  around  us  ; that  as  they  are 
evidently  meant  for  our  delight,  and  as  we  always  feel  them 
to  be  beautiful,  w^e  may  assume  that  the  forms  into  which 
their  Leaves  are  cast  are  indeed  types  of  beauty,  not  of  extreme 
or  perfect,  but  average  beauty.  And  finding  that  they  inva- 
riably terminate  more  or  less  in  pointed  arches,  and  are  not 
square-headed,  I assert  the  pointed  arch  to  be  one  of  the 
forms  most  fitted  for  perpetual  contemplation  by  the  human 
mind ; that  it  is  one  of  those  which  never  weary,  however 
often  repeated  ; and  that  therefore  being  both  the  strongest 
in  structure,  and  a beautiful  form  (while  the  square  head  is 
both  weak  in  structure,  and  an  ugly  form),  we  are  unwise 
ever  to  build  in  any  other. 

Here,  however,  I must  anticipate  another  objection.  It 
may  be  asked  why  we  are  to  build  only  the  tops  of  the  wiu= 
dows  pointed, — why  not  follow  the  leaves,  and  point  them  at 
the  bottom  also. 

For  this  simple  reason,  that,  while  in  architecture  you  are 
continually  called  upon  to  do  what  may  be  unnecessary  for 
the  sake  of  beauty,  you  are  never  called  upon  to  do  what  is 

* I am  at  present  aware  only  of  one  tree,  the  tulip  tree,  which  has  an  ex- 
ceptional form,  and  which,  I doubt  not,  every  one  will  admit  loses  much 
beauty  in  consequence.  All  other  leaves,  so  far  as  I know,  have  the 
round  or  pointed  arch  in  the  form  of  the  extremities  of  their  foils. 


AND  PATNTING. 


231 


inconvenient  for  the  sake  of  beauty.  You  want  the  level  win* 
dow  sill  to  lean  upon,  or  to  allow  the  window  to  open  on  a 
balcony : the  eye  and  the  common  sense  of  the  beholder  re- 
quire this  necessity  to  be  met  before  any  laws  of  beauty  are 
thought  of  ; and  besides  this,  there  is  in  the  sill  no  necessity 
for  the  pointed  arch  as  a bearing  form  ; on  the  contrary,  it 
would  give  an  idea  of  weak  support  for  the  sides  of  the  win- 
dow, and  therefore  is  at  once  rejected  ; only  I beg  of  you  par- 
ticularly to  observe  that  the  level  sill,  although  useful,  and 
therefore  admitted,  does  not  therefore  become  beautiful ; the 
eye  does  not  like  it  so  well  as  the  top  of  the  window,  nor 
does  the  sculptor  like  to  attract  the  eye  to  it  ; his  richest 
mouldings,  traceries,  and  sculptures  are  all  reserved  for  the 
top  of  the  window,  they  are  sparingly  granted  to  its  horizon- 
tal base.  And  farther,  observe,  that  when  neither  the  con- 
venience of  the  sill,  nor  the  support  of  the  structure,  are  any 
more  of  moment,  as  in  small  windows  and  traceries,  you  in- 
stantly have  the  point  given  to  the  bottom  of  the  window. 
Do  you  recollect  the  ^v^est  window  of  your  own  Dumblane 
Abbey?  If  you  look  in  any  common  guide-book,  3’ou  will 
find  it  pointed  out  as  peculiarly  beautiful, — it  is  acknowl- 
edged to  be  beautiful  by  the  most  careless  observer.  And 
why  beautiful  ? Look  at  it  [fig.  7.).  Simply  because  in  its 
great  contours  it  has  the  form  of  a forest  leaf,  and  because 
in  its  decoration  it  has  used  nothing  but  forest  leaves.  The 
sharp  and  expressive  maulding  which  surrounds  it  is  a very 
interesting  example  of  one  used  to  an  enormous  extent  by 
the  builders  of  the  early  English  Gothic,  usually  in  the  form 
seen  in  fig.  2.  above,  composed  of  clusters  of  four  sharp  leaves 
each,  originally  produced  by  sculpturing  the  sides  of  a four- 
sided pyramid,  and  afterwards  brought  more  or  less  into  a 
true  image  of  leaves,  but  deriving  all  its  beauty  from  the 
botanical  form.  Li  the  present  instance  only  two  leaves  are 
set  in  each  cluster  ; and  the  architect  has  been  determined 
that  the  naturalism  should  be  perfect.  For  he  was  no  com- 
mon man  who  designed  that  cathedral  of  Dumblane.  I know 
not  anything  so  perfect  in  its  simplicity,  and  so  beautiful,  as 
far  as  it  reaches,  in  all  the  Gothic  with  which  I am  acquainted 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


And  just  in  proportion  to  his  power  of  mind,  that  man  was 
content  to  work  under  Nature’s  teaching ; and  instead  of 
putting  a merely  formal  dogtooth,  as  every  body  else  did  at 
the  time,  he  went  down  to  the  woody  bank  of  the  sweet  river 
beneath  the  rocks  on  which  he  was  building,  and  he  took  up 
a few  of  the  fallen  leaves  that  lay  by  it,  and  he  set  them  in 
his  arch,  side  by  side,  for  ever.  And,  look — that  he  might  show 
you  he  had  done  this, — he  has  made  them  all  of  different 
sizes,  just  as  they  lay  ; and  that  you  might  not  by  any  chance 
miss  noticing  the  variety,  he  has  put  a great  broad  one  at  the 
tojj,  and  then  a little  one  turned  the  wrong  way,  next  to  it, 
so  that  you  must  be  blind  indeed  if  you  do  not  understand 
his  meaning.  And  the  healthy  change  and  playfulness  of 
this  just  does  in  the  stone-work  what  it  does  on  the  tree 
boughs,  and  is  a perpetual  refreshment  and  invigoration ; so 
that,  however  long  you  gaze  at  this  simple  ornament — and 
none  can  be  simj)ler,  a village  mason  could  carve  it  all  round 
the  window  in  a few  hours — you  are  never  weary  of  it,  it 
seems  always  new. 

It  is  true  that  oval  windows  of  this  form  are  comparatively 
rare  in  Gothic  work,  but,  as  you  well  know,  circular  or  wheel 
windows  are  used  constantly,  and  in  most  traceries  the 
apertures  are  curved  and  pointed  as  much  at  the  bottom  as 
the  top.  So  that  I believe  you  will  now  allow  me  to  proceed 
upon  the  assumption,  that  the  pointed  arch  is  indeed  the 
best  form  into  which  the  head  either  of  door  or  window  can 
be  thrown,  considered  as  a means  of  sustaining  weight  above 
it.  How  these  pointed  arches  ought  to  be  grouped  and  deco- 
rated, I shall  endeavour  to  show  you  in  my  next  lecture. 
Meantime  I must  beg  of  you  to  consider  farther  some  of  the 
general  points  connected  with  the  structure  of  the  roof. 

I am  sure  that  all  of  you  must  readily  acknowledge  the 
charm  which  is  imparted  to  any  landscape  by  the  presence  of 
cottages  ; and  you  must  over  and  over  again  have  paused  at 
the  wicket  gate  of  some  cottage  garden,  delighted  by  the  sim- 
ple beauty  of  the  honeysuckle  porch  and  latticed  window. 
Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  to  ask  the  question,  what  effect 
the  cottage  would  have  upon  your  feelings  if  it  had  Jio  roof? 


AND  PAINTING. 


OQO 

no  visible  roof,  I mean  ; — if  instead  of  the  thatched  slope,  in 
which  the  little  upper  windows  are  buried  deep,  as  in  a nest 
of  straw — or  the  rough  shelter  of  its  mountain  shales — or 
warm  colouring  of  russet  tiles — there  were  nothing  but  a flat 
leaden  top  to  it,  making  it  look  like  a large  packing-case  with 
windows  in  it?  I don’t  think  the  rarity  of  such  a sight 
would  make  you  feel  it  to  be  beautiful ; on  the  contrary,  if 
you  think  over  the  matter  you  will  find  that  you  actually  do 
owe,  and  ought  to  owe,  a great  part  of  your  pleasure  in  all 
cottage  scenery,  and  in  all  the  inexhaustible  imagery  of  litera- 
ture which  is  founded  upon  it,  to  the  conspicuousness  of  the 
cottage  roof— to  the  subordination  of  the  cottage  itself  to  its 
covering,  which  leaves,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  really  more 
roof  than  anything  else.  It  is,  indeed,  not  so  much  the 
whitewashed  walls — nor  the  flowery  garden — nor  the  rude 
fragments  of  stones  set  for  steps  at  the  door — nor  any  other 
picturesqueness  of  the  building  which  interests  you,  so  much 
as  the  grey  bank  of  its  heavy  eaves,  deep-cushioned  with 
green  moss  and  golden  stonecrop.  And  there  is  a profound, 
yet  evident,  reason  for  this  feeling.  The  very  soul  of  the 
cottage — the  essence  and  meaning  of  it — are  in  its  roof  ; it  is 
that,  mainly,  wherein  consists  its  shelter ; that,  wherein  it 
differs  most  completely  from  a cleft  in  rocks  or  bower  in 
woods.  It  is  in  its  thick  impenetrable  coverlid  of  close 
thatch  that  its  whole  heart  and  hospitality  are  concentrated. 
Consider  the  difference,  in  sound,  of  the  expressions  “ beneath 
my  roof”  and  ‘‘within  my  walls,” — consider  whether  you 
would  be  best  sheltered,  in  a shed,  with  a stout  roof  sustained 
on  corner  posts,  or  in  an  enclosure  of  four  walls  without  a 
roof  at  all, — and  you  will  quickly  see  how  important  a part 
of  the  cottage  the  roof  must  always  be  to  the  mind  as  well 
as  to  the  eye,  and  how,  from  seeing  it,  the  greatest  i^art  of 
our  pleasure  must  continually  arise. 

Now,  do  you  suppose  that  which  is  so  all-important  in  a 
cottage,  can  be  of  small  importance  in  your  own  dwelling- 
house  ? Do  you  think  that  by  any  splendour  of  architecture — 
any  height  of  stories — you  can  atone  to  the  mind  for  the  loss 
of  the  aspect  of  the  roof  ? It  is  vain  to  say  you  take  the  roof 


234 


LECTURED  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


for  granted.  You  may  as  well  say  you  take  a man’s  kindness 
for  granted,  tliougli  lie  neither  looks  nor  speaks  kindly.  You 
may  know  him  to  be  kind  in  reality,  but  you  will  not  like  him 
so  well  as  if  he  spoke  and  looked  kindly  also.  And  whatever 
external  splendour  you  may  give  your  houses,  you  will  always 
feol  there  is  something  wanting,  unless  you  see  their  roofs 
plainly.  And  this  especially  in  the  north.  Li  southern  archi- 
tecture the  roof  is  of  far  less  importance  ; but  here  the  soul  of 
domestic  building  is  in  the  largeness  and  conspicuousness  of 
the  protection  against  the  ponderous  snow  and  driving  sleet. 
You  may  make  the  fayade  of  the  square  pile,  if  the  roof  be  not 
seen,  as  handsome  as  you  please, — you  may  cover  it  with  dec- 
oration,— but  there  will  always  be  a heartlessness  about  it, 
wdiich  you  will  not  know  how  to  conquer  ; above  all,  a per- 
petual difficulty  in  finishing  the  wall  at  top,  which  will  require 
all  kinds  of  strange  inventions  in  parapets  and  pinnacles  for  its 
decoration,  and  yet  will  never  look  right. 

Now,  I need  not  tell  you  that,  as  it  is  desirable,  for  the  sake 
of  the  effect  upon  the  mind,  that  the  roof  should  be  visible,  so 
the  best  and  most  natural  form  of  roof  in  the  north  is  that 
which  will  render  it  most  visible,  namely,  the  steep  gable  ; the 
best  and  most  natural,  I say,  because  this  form  not  only  throws 
off  snow  and  rain  most  completely,  and  dries  fastest,  but  ob- 
tains the  greatest  interior  sj^ace  within  walls  of  a given  height, 
removes  the  heat  of  the  sun  most  efihctually  from  the  upper 
rooms,  and  affords  most  space  for  ventilation. 

You  have  then,  observe,  two  great  principles,  as  far  as  north- 
ern architecture  is  concerned  ; first,  that  the  pointed  arch  is 
to  be  the  means  by  which  the  weight  of  the  wall  or  roof  is  to 
be  sustained  ; secondly,  that  the  steep  gable  is  the  form  most 
proper  for  the  roof  itself.  And  now  observe  this  most  inter- 
esting fact,  that  all  the  loveliest  Gothic  architecture  in  the 
world  is  based  on  the  group  of  lines  composed  of  the  pointed 
arch  and  the  gable.  If  you  look  at  the  beautiful  apse  of  Amiens 
Cathedral — a work  justly  celebrated  over  all  Euroj)e — you  will 
find  it  formed  merely  of  a series  of  windows  surmounted  by 
pure  gables  of  open  work.  If  you  look  at  the  transept  porches 
of  Eouen,  or  at  the  great  and  celebrated  j^orch  of  the  cathedral 


AND  PAINTING. 


235 


of  Rlieims,  or  at  that  of  Strasbourg,  Bayeux,  Amiens,  or  Pe- 
terborough, still  you  will  see  that  these  lovely  compositions  are 
nothing  more  than  richly  decorated  forms  of  gable  over  pointed 
arch.  But  more  than  this,  you  must  be  all  well  aware  how 
fond  our  best  architectural  artists  are  of  the  street  effects  of^ 
foreign  cities  ; and  even  those  now  present  who  have  not  per4 
sonally  visited  any  of  the  continental  towns  must  remember, 
I should  think,  some  of  tlie  many  interesting  drawings  by  Mr. 
Front,  Mr.  Nash,  and  other  excellent  draughtsmen,  which  have 
for  many  years  adorned  our  exhibitions.  Now,  the  principal 
charm  of  all  those  continental  street  effects  is  dependent  on 
the  houses  having  high-pitched  gable  roofs.  In  the  Nether- 
lands and  Northern  France,  where  the  material  for  building  is 
brick  or  stone,  the  fronts  of  the  stone  gables  are  raised  above 
the  roofs,  and  you  have  magnificent  and  grotesque  ranges  of 
steps  or  curves  decorated  with  various  ornaments,  succeeding 
one  another  in  endless  perspective  along  the  streets  of  Antwerp, 
Ghent,  or  Brussels.  In  Picardy  and  Normandy,  again,  and 
many  towns  of  Germany,  where  the  material  for  building  is 
principally  wood,  the  roof  is  made  to  project  over  the  gables, 
fringed  with  a beautifully  carved  cornice,  and  casting  a broad 
shadow  down  the  house  front.  This  is  principally  seen  at  Abbe- 
ville, Rouen,  Lisieux,  and  others  of  the  older  towns  of  France. 
But,  in  all  cases,  the  effect  of  the  whole  street  depends  on  the 
prominence  of  the  gables ; not  only  of  the  fronts  towards  the 
streets,  but  of  the  sides  also,  set  with  small  garret  or  dormer 
windows,  each  of  the  most  fantastic  and  beautiful  form,  and 
crowned  with  a little  spire  or  pinnacle.  Wherever  there  is  a 
little  winding  stair,  or  projecting  bow  window,  or  any  other 
irregularity  of  form,  the  steep  ridges  shoot  into  turrets  and 
small  spires,  as  in  fig.  8.*,  each  in  its  turn  crowned  by  a fan- 
tastic ornament,  covered  with  curiously  shaped  slates  or  shin- 
gles, or  crested-with  long  fringes  of  rich  ironwork,  so  that,  seen 
from  above  and  from  a distance,  the  intricate  grouping  of  the 
roofs  of  a French  city  is  no  less  interesting  than  its  actual 
streets  ; and  in  the  streets  themselves,  the  masses  of  broad 
shadow  which  the  roofs  form  against  the  sky,  are  a most  im- 
* This  figure  is  copied  from  Prout. 


230 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


portant  background  to  the  bright  and  sculptured  surfaces  of 
the  walls. 

Finally,  I need  not  remind  you  of  the  effect  upon  the 
northern  mind  which  has  always  been  j^roduced  by  the  heaven- 
pointing spire,  nor  of  the  theory  which  has  been  founded 
upon  it  of  the  general  meaning  of  Gothic  Architecture  as  ex- 
2)ressive  of  i-eligious  asj^iration.  In  a few  minutes,  you  may 
ascertain  the  exact  value  of  that  theory,  and  the  degree  in 
which  it  is  true. 

The  first  tower  of  which  we  hear  as  built  upon  the  earth, 
was  certainly  built  in  a species  of  aspiration  ; but  I do  not 
sujojDOse  that  any  one  here  will  think  it  was  a religious  one. 
‘‘  Go  to  now.  Let  us  build  a tower  whose  top  may  reach  un- 
to Heaven.”  From  that  day  to  this,  whenever  men  have  be- 
come skilful  architects  at  all,  there  has  been  a tendency  in 
them  to  build  high  ; not  in  any  religious  feeling,  but  in  mere 
exuberance  of  sj^irit  and  power — as  they  dance  or  sing — with 
a certain  mingling  of  vanity — like  the  feeling  in  which  a child 
builds  a tower  of  cards  ; and,  in  nobler  instances,  with  also  a 
strong  sense  of,  and  delight  in  the  majesty,  height,  and 
strength  of  the  building  itself,  such  as  we  have  in  that  of  a 
lofty  tree  or  a j^eaked  mountain.  Add  to  this  instinct  the  fre- 
quent necessity  of  ^^oints  of  elevation  for  watch-tow^ers,  or  of 
jooints  of  offence,  as  in  towers  built  on  the  ramparts  of  cities, 
and,  finally,  the  need  of  elevations  for  the  transmission  of 
sound,  as  in  the  Turkish  minaret  and  Christian  belfry,  and 
3^ou  have,  I think,  a sufficient  exj^lanation  of  the  tower-build- 
ing of  the  world  in  general.  Look  through  your  Bibles  only, 
and  collect  the  various  exj^ressions  with  reference  to  tower- 
building there,  and  you  will  have  a very  complete  idea  of  the 
s^^irit  in  which  it  is  for  the  most  j^art  undertaken.  You  begin 
with  that  of  Babel ; then  you  remember  Gideon  beating  down 
the  Tower  of  Penuel,  in  order  more  comjfietely  to  humble  the 
pride  of  the  men  of  the  city ; you  remember  the  defence  of 
the  tower  of  Shechem  against  Abimelech,  and  the  death  of 
Abimelech  by  the  casting  of  a stone  from  it  by  a woman's 
hand  ; you  recollect  the  husbandman  building  a tower  in  his 
vineyard,  and  the  beautiful  expressions  in  Solomon’s  Song — 


AND  PAINTING. 


237 


“ The  Tower  of  Lebanon,  which  looketh  towards  Damascus  ; ” 

“ I am  a wall,  and  my  breasts  like  towers  ; ” — you  recollect  the 
Psalmist’s  expressions  of  love  and  delight,  “Go  ye  round 
about  Jerusalem  ; tell  the  towers  thereof  : mark  ye  well  her  - 
bulwarks ; consider  her  palaces,  that  ye  may  tell  it  to  the  gen- 
eration following.”  You  see  in  all  these  cases  how  completely 
the  tower  is  a subject  of  human  pride,  or  delight,  or  defence, 
not  in  anywise  associated  with  religious  sentiment ; the  towers 
of  Jerusalem  being  named  in  the  same  sentence,  not  with  her 
temple,  but  with  her  bulwarks  and  palaces.  And  thus,  when 
the  tower  is  in  reahty  connected  with  a place  of  worship,  it 
was  generally  done  to  add  to  its  magnificence,  but  not  to  add 
to  its  religious  expression.  And  over  the  whole  of  the  world, 
you  have  various  species  of  elevated  buildings,  the  Egyptian 
pyramid,  the  Indian  and  Chinese  pagoda,  the  Turkish  mina- 
ret, and  the  Christian  belfry — all  of  them  raised  either  to 
make  a show  from  a distance,  or  to  ciy  from,  or  swing  bells 
in,  or  hang  them  round,  or  for  some  other  very  human  reason. 
Thus,  when  the  good  people  of  Beauvais  were  building  their 
cathedral,  that  of  Amiens,  then  just  completed,  had  excited 
the  admiration  of  aU  France,  and  the  people  of  Beauvais,  in 
their  jealousy  and  determination  to  beat  the  people  of  Amiens, 
set  to  work  to  build  a tower  to  their  own  cathedral  as  high  as 
they  possibly  could.  They  built  it  so  high  that  it  tumbled 
down,  and  they  were  never  able  to  finish  their  cathedral  at  all 
— it  stands  a wreck  to  this  day.  But  you  will  not,  I should 
think,  imagine  this  to  have  been  done  in  heavenward  aspira- 
tion. Mind,  however,  I don’t  blame  the  people  of  Beauvais, 
except  for  their  bad  building.  I think  their  desire  to  beat 
the  citizens  of  Amiens  a most  amiable  weakness,  and  only  wish 
I could  see  the  citizens  of  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow  inflamed 
wdth  the  same  emulation,  building  Gothic  towers  instead  of 
manufactory  chimneys  ; only  do  not  confound  a feeling  which, 
though  healthy  and  right,  may  be  nearly  analogous  to  that  in 

* I did  not,  at  tlie  time  of  the  delivery  of  these  lectures,  know  how 
many  Gothic  towers  the  worthy  Glaswegians  have  lately  built ; that  of 
St.  Peter’s,  in  particular,  being  a most  meritorious  effort. 


238 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


which  you  play  a cricket-match,  with  any  feeling  allied  to  youf 
hope  of  heaven. 

Such  being  the  state  of  the  case  with  respect  to  tower-* 
building  in  general,  let  me  follow  for  a few  minutes  the 
changes  which  occur  in  the  towers  of  northern  and  southern 
architects. 

Many  of  us  are  familiar  with  the  ordinary  form  of  the  Itab 
ian  bell-tower  or  campanile.  From  the  eighth  century  to  the 
thirteenth  there  was  little  change  in  that  form  : * four-square, 
rising  high  and  without  tapering  into  the  air,  story  above 
story,  they  stood  like  giants  in  the  quiet  fields  beside  the  i:)iles 
of  the  basilica  or  the  Lombardic  church,  in  this  form  [fig.  9. ), 
tiled  at  the  top  in  a flat  gable,  with  o-pen  arches  below,  and 
fewer  and  fewer  arches  on  each  inferior  story,  down  to  .the 
bottom.  It  is  worth  while  noting  the  difference  in  form  be- 
tween these  and  the  towers  built  for  military  service.  The 
latter  were  built  as  in  fig.  10.,  projecting  vigorous!}"  at  the  top 
over  a series  of  brackets  or  machicolations,  with  very  small 
windows,  and  no  decoration  below.  Such  towers  as  these 
were  attached  to  every  important  palace  in  the  cities  of  Italy, 
and  stood  in  great  cii’cles — trooj^s  of  towers — around  their 
external  walls : their  ruins  still  frown  along  the  crests  of  every 
promontory  of  the  Apennines,  and  are  seen  from  far  away  in 
the  great  Lombardic  plain,  from  distances  of  half-a-day's  jour- 
ney, dark  against  the  amber  sky  of  the  horizon.  These  are 
of  course  now  built  no  more,  the  changed  methods  of  modern 
warfare  having  cast  them  into  entire  disuse ; but  the  belfry 
or  campanile  has  had  a very  different  influence  on  Euroi)ean 
architecture.  Its  form  in  the  plains  of  Italy  and  South  France 
being  that  just  shown  you,  the  moment  we  enter  the  valleys 
of  the  Alps,  where  there  is  snow  to  be  sustained,  w"e  find  its 
form  of  roof  altered  by  the  substitution  of  a steep  gable  for  a 
flat  one.  f There  are  probably  few  in  the  room  who  have  not 

* There  is  a good  abstract  of  the  forms  of  the  Italian  campanile,  by 
Mr.  Papworth,  in  the  Journal  of  the  Archaeological  Institute,  March, 
1850. 

f The  form  establishes  itself  afterwards  in  the  plains,  in  sympathy? 
with  other  Gothic  conditions,  as  in  the  campanile  of  St.  Mark’s  at  Venice 


AND  PAINTING. 


239 


been  in  some  parts  of  South  Switzerland,  and  who  do  not  re- 
member the  beautiful  effect  of  the  grey  mountain  churches, 
many  of  them  hardly  changed  since  the  tenth  and  eleventh 
centuries,  whose  pointed  towers  stand  up  through  the  green 
level  of  file  vines,  or  crown  the  jutting  rocks  that  border  the 
valley.  From  this  form  to  the  true  spire,  the  change  is  slight^ 
and  consists  in  little  more  than  various  decoration,  generally 
in  putting  small  pinnacles  at  the  angles,  and  piercing  the  cen- 
tral pyramid  with  traceried  windows^  sometimes,  as  at  Fri- 
bourg and  Burgos,  throwing  it  into  ti’acery  altogether : but 
to  do  this  is  invariably  the  sign  of  a vicious  style,  as  it  takes 
away  from  the  spire  its  character  of  a true  roof,  and  turns  it 
nearly  into  an  ornamental  excrescence.  At  Antwerp  and  Brus- 
sels, the  celebrated  towers  (one,  observe,  ecclesiastical,  be- 
ing the  tower  of  the  cathedral,  and  the  other  secular),  are 
formed  by  successions  of  diminishing  towers,  set  one  above 
the  other,  and  each  supported  by  buttresses  thrown  to  the 
angles  of  the  one  beneath.  At  the  English  cathedrals  of  Lich- 
field and  Salisbury,  the  spire  is  seen  in  great  j)ui'ity,  only 
decorated  by  sculpture  ; but  I am  aware  of  no  example  so 
striking  in  its  entire  simplicity  as  that  of  the  towers  of  the 
cathedral  of  Coutances,  in  Normandy.  There  is  a dispute  be- 
tween French  and  English  antiquaries  as  to  the  date  of  the 
building,  the  English  being  unwilling  to  admit  its  complete 
priority  to  all  their  own  Gothic.  I have  no  doubt  of  this  pri- 
ority myself  ; and  I hope  that  the  time  will  soon  come  when 
men  will  cease  to  confound  vanity  with  patriotism,  and  will 
think  the  honour  of  their  nation  more  advanced  by  their  own 
sincerity  and  courtesy,  than  by  claims,  however  learnedly  con- 
tested, to  the  invention  of  pinnacles  and  arches.  I believe  the 
French  nation  was,  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  the 
greatest  in  the  world  ; and  that  the  French  not  only  invented 
Gothic  architecture,  but  carried  it  to  a perfection  which  no 
other  nation  has  approached,  then  or  since  : but,  however  this 
may  be,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  towers  of  Coutances, 
if  not  the  earliest,  are  among  the  very  earliest,  examples  of 
the  fully  developed  spire,  I have  drawn  one  of  them  care- 
fully for  you  (fig.  11.),  and  you  will  see  immediately  that  they 


LECTURES  ON  AUGIIITECTURE 


2-K) 

arc  literally  domestic  roofs,  with  garret  windows,  executed  on 
a largo  scale,  and  in  stone.  Their  only  ornament  is  a kind  of 
scaly  mail,  which  is  nothing  more  than  the  copying  in  stone  of 
the  common  wooden  shingles  of  the  house-roof ; and  their 
security  is  provided  for  by  strong  gabled  dormer  windows,  of 
massy  masonry,  which,  though  supported  on  detached  shafts, 
iiave  weight  enough  completely  to  balance  the  lateral  thrusts 
of  the  spires. 

Nothing  can  surpass  the  boldness  or  the  simplicity  of  the 
plan  ; and  yet,  in  spite  of  this  simplicity,  the  clear  detaching 
of  the  shafts  from  the  sloj)e  of  the  spire,  and  their  great 
height,  strengthened  by  rude  cross-bars  of  stone,  carried  back 
to  the  wall  behind,  occasions  so  great  a complexity  and  play 
of  cast  shadows,  that  I remember  no  architectural  composi- 
tion of  which  the  aspect  is  so  completely  varied  at  different 
hours  of  the  day.*  But  the  main  thing  I wish  you  to  observe 
is,  the  complete  domesticity  of  the  work  ; the  evident  treat- 
ment of  the  church  spire  merely  as  a magnified  house-roof  ; 
and  the  proof  herein  of  the  great  truth  of  which  I have  been 
endeavouring  to  persuade  you,  that  all  good  architecture  rises 
out  of  good  and  simple  domestic  work;  and  that,  therefore, 
before  you  attempt  to  build  great  churches  and  palaces,  you 
must  build  good  house  doors  and  garret  windows.  Nor  is 
the  spire  the  only  ecclesiastical  form  deducible  from  domestic 
architecture.  The  spires  of  France  and  Geianany  are  associ- 
ated with  other  towers,  even  simpler  and  more  straightforward 
in  confession  of  their  nature,  in  which,  though  the  walls  of 
the  tower  are  covered  with  sculpture,  there  is  an  ordinary 
ridged  gable  roof  on  the  top.  The  finest  example  I know  of 
this  kind  of  tower,  is  that  on  the  northwest  angle  of  Eouen 
Cathedral  (fig.  12.)  ; but  they  occur  in  multitudes  in  the 
older  towns  of  Germany  ; and  the  backgrounds  of  Albert 
Durer  are  full  of  them,  and  owe  to  them  a great  part  of  their 
interest : all  these  great  and  magnificent  masses  of  architect- 
ure being  repeated  on  a smaller  scale  by  the  little  turret 
roofs  and  pmnacles  of  every  house  in  the  town  ; and  the 
whole  system  of  them  being  expressive,  not  by  any  means  of 

* The  sketch  was  made  about  10  o’clock  on  a September  moriiiug. 


AND  PAIATING. 


241 


religious  feeling,*  but  merely  of  joyfulness  and  exhilaration 
of  spirit  in  the  inhabitants  of  such  cities,  leading  them  to 
throw  their  roofs  high  into  the  sky,  and  therefore  giving  to 
the  style  of  architecture  with  which  these  grotesque  roofs  are 
associated,  a certain  charm  like  that  of  cheerfulness  in  the 
human  face  ; besides  a power  of  interesting  the  beholder 
which  is  testified,  not  only  by  the  artist  in  his  constant  search 
after  such  forms  as  the  elements  of  his  landscape,  but  by 
every  phrase  of  our  language  and  literature  bearing  on  such 


* Among  tlie  various  modes  in  wliicli  the  architects,  against  whose 
practice  my  writings  are  directed,  have  endeavoured  to  oppose  them,  no 
cliarge  has  been  made  more  frequently  than  that  of  their  self-contradic- 
tion ; the  fact  being,  that  there  are  few  people  in  the  world  who  are 
capable  of  seeing  the  two  sides  of  any  subject,  or  of  conceiving  how  the 
statements  of  its  opposite  aspects  can  possibly  be  reconcileable.  For  in- 
stance, in  a recent  review,  though  for  the  most  part  both  fair  and  in- 
telligent, it  is  remarked,  on  this  very  subject  of  the  domestic  origin  of 
the  northern  Gothic,  that  “ Mr.  Ruskin  is  evidently  possessed  by  a fixed 
idea,  that  the  Venetian  architects  were  devout  men,  and  that  their  de- 
votion was  expressed  in  their  buildings  ; while  he  will  not  allow  our 
own  cathedrals  to  have  been  built  by  any  but  worldly  men,  who  had 
no  thoughts  of  heaven,  but  only  vague  ideas  of  keeping  out  of  hell,  by 
erecting  costly  places  of  worship.”  If  this  writer  had  compared  the 
two  passages  with  the  care  which  such  a subject  necessarily  demands,  he 
would  have  found  that  I was  not  opposing  Venetian  to  English  piety  ; 
but  that  in  the  one  case  I was  speaking  of  the  spirit  manifested  in  the 
entire  architecture  of  the  nation,  and  in  the  other  of  occasional  efforts 
of  superstition  as  distinguished  from  that  spirit ; and,  farther,  that  in 
the  one  case,  I was  speaking  of  decorative  features  which  are  ordinarily 
the  results  of  feeling,  in  the  other  of  structural  features,  which  are  or- 
dinarily the  results  of  necessity  or  convenience.  Thus  it  is  rational  and 
just  that  we  should  attribute  the  decoration  of  the  arches  of  St.  Mark’s 
with  scriptural  mosaics  to  a religious  sentiment ; but  it  would  be  a 
strange  absurdity  to  regard  as  an  effort  of  piety  the  invention  of  the 
form  of  the  arch  itself,  of  which  one  of  the  earliest  and  most  perfect 
instances  is  in  the  Cloaca  Maxima.  And  thus  in  the  case  of  spires  and 
towers,  it  is  just  to  ascribe  to  the  devotion  of  their  designers  that 
dignity  which  was  bestowed  upon  forms  derived  from  the  simplest 
domestic  buildings  ; but  it  is  ridiculous  to  attribute  any  great  refinement 
A of  religious  feeling,  or  height  of  religious  aspiration,  to  those  who  fur- 
nished the  funds  for  the  erection  of  the  loveliest  tower  in  North  France, 
by  paying  for  permission  to  eat  butter  in  Lent. 


242 


LECTURES  ON  ARClUrECTURE 


topics.  Have  not  these  words,  Pinnacle,  Turret,  Belfry, 
Spire,  Tower,  a pleasant  sound  in  all  your  ears  ? I do  not 
speak  of  your  scenery,  I do  not  ask  you  how  much  you  feel 
that  it  owes  to  the  grey  battlements  that  frown  through  the 
woods  of  Craig  Millar,  to  the  pointed  turrets  that  flank  the 
front  of  Holyrood,  or  to  the  massy  keeps  of  your  Crichtoun 
and  Borthwick  and  other  border  towers.  But  look  merely 
through  your  poetry  and  romances ; take  away  out  of  your 
border  ballads  the  word  tower  wherever  it  occurs,  and  the 
ideas  connected  with  it,  and  what  will  become  of  the  ballads  ? 
See  how  Sir  Walter  Scott  cannot  even  get  through  a descrip- 
tion of  Highland  scenery  without  help  from  the  idea : — 

“Eacli  purple  peak,  eacli  llinty  spire, 

Was  bathed  in  floods  of  living  Are.” 

Take  away  from  Scott’s  romances  the  word  and  idea  turret, 
and  see  how  much  3'ou  would  lose.  Suppose,  for  instance, 
when  young  Osbaldistone  is  leaving’  Osbaldistone  Hall,  in- 
stead of  saying  “The  old  clock  struck  two  from  a turret  ad- 
joining my  bedchamber,”  he  had  said,  “The  old  clock  struck 
two  from  the  landing  at  the  top  of  the  stair,”  what  would  be- 
come of  the  passage  ? And  can  you  really  suppose  that  what 
has  so  much  power  over  you  in  words  has  no  power  over  you 
in  reality  ? Do  you  think  there  is  any  group  of  words  which 
would  thus  interest  you,  when  the  things  expressed  by  them 
are  uninteresting  ? For  instance,  you  know  that,  for  an  im- 
mense time  back,  all  your  public  buildings  have  been  built 
with  a row  of  pillars  supporting  a triangular  thing  called  a 
pediment.  You  see  this  form  every  day  in  your  banks  and 
clubhouses,  and  churches  and  chaj^els  ; you  are  told  that  it  is 
the  perfection  of  architectural  beauty  ; and  yet  suppose  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  instead  of  writing,  “Each  purple  peak,  each 
flinty  spire,^’  had  written,  “Each  purple  peak,  each  flinty 
‘ pediment.’  ” Would  you  have  thought  the  poem  improved  ? 

* It  has  been  objected  to  this  comparison  that  the  form  of  the  pedi' 
ment  does  not  properly  represent  that  of  the  rocks  of  the  Trosachs. 
The  objection  is  utterly  futile,  for  there  is  not  a single  spire  or  joiunacle 
from  one  end  of  the  Trosaclis  to  the  other.  All  their  rocks  are  heavily 


AND  PAINTING. 


243 


A.nd  if  not,  why  would  it  be  spoiled  ? Simply  because  the 
idea  is  no  longer  of  any  value  to  you  ; the  thing  spoken  of  is 
a nonentity. 

These  pediments,  and  stylobates,  and  architraves  never  ex- 
cited a single  pleasurable  feeling  in  you — never  will,  to  the 
end  of  time.  They  are  evermore  dead,  lifeless,  and  useless, 
in  art  as  in  poetry,  and  though  you  built  as  many  of  them  as 
there  are  slates  on  your  house-roofs,  you  will  never  care  for 
them.  They  will  only  remain  to  later  ages  as  monuments  of 
the  patience  and  pliability  with  which  the  people  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  sacrificed  their  feelings  to  fashions,  and  their  in- 
tellects to  forms.  But  on  the  other  hand,  that  strange  and 
thrilling  interest  with  which  such  words  strike  you  as  are  in 
anywise  connected  with  Gothic  architecture — as  for  instance. 
Vault,  Arch,  Spire,  Pinnacle,  Battlement,  Barbican,  Porch,  and 
myriads  of  such  others,  words  everlastingly  poetical  and  pow- 
erful whenever  they  occur — is  a most  true  and  certain  index 
that  the  things  themselves  are  delightful  to  you,  and  will  ever 
continue  to  be  so.  Believe  me,  you  do  indeed  love  these 
things,  so  far  as  you  care  about  art  at  all,  so  far  as  you  are 
not  ashamed  to  confess  what  you  feel  about  them.  In  your 
public  capacities,  as  bank  directors,  and  charity  overseers,  and 
administrators  of  this  and  that  other  undertaking  or  institution, 
you  cannot  express  your  feelings  at  all.  You  form  commit- 
tees to  decide  upon  the  style  of  the  new  building,  and  as  you 
have  never  been  in  the  habit  of  trusting  to  your  own  taste  in 
such  matters,  you  inquire  who  is  the  most  celebrated,  that  is 
to  say,  the  most  employed  architect  of  the  day.  And  you 
send  for  the  great  Mr.  Blank,  and  the  Great  Blank  sends  you 

rounded,  and  the  introduction  of  the  word  “ spire”  is  a piece  of  in- 
accuracy in  description,  ventured  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  Gothic  image. 
Farther:  it  has  been  said  that  if  I had  substituted  the  word  “gable,” 
it  would  have  spoiled  the  line  just  as  much  as  the  word  “ pediment,” 
though  “gable”  is  a Gothic  word.  Of  course  it  would;  but  why? 
Because  “gable  ” is  a term  of  vulgar  domestic  architecture,  and  there- 
fore destructive  of  the  tone  of  the  heroic  description  ; whereas  “pedi- 
ment” and  “spire”  are  precisely  correlative  terms,  being  each  the 
crowning  feature  in  ecclesiastical  edifices,  and  the  comparison  of  theij 
effects  in  the  verse  is  therefore  absolutely  accurate,  logical,  and  just. 


244 


LECTURE.^  ON  ARClllTEGTURE 


a 2:)laii  of  a great  long  marble  box  with  half-a-dozen  pillars  at 
one  end  of  it,  and  the  same  at  the  other  ; and  you  look  at  the 
Great  Blank’s  great  2)lan  in  a grave  maiiiier,  and  you  daresay 
it  will  be  very  handsome  ; and  you  ask  the  Great  Blank  what 
sort  of  a blank  cheque  must  be  filled  up  before  the  great  j^lan 
can  be  realized,  and  you  subscribe  in  a generous  burst  of 
confidence  ” whatever  is  wanted ; and  when  it  is  all  done,  and 
the  great  white  marble  box  is  set  iqo  in  your  streets,  you  coii- 
tenq)late  it,  not  knowing  what  to  make  of  it  exactly,  but  ho2> 
ing  it  is  all  right ; and  then  there  is  a dinner  given  to  the 
Great  Blaidv,  and  the  morning  Paj^ers  say  that  the  new  and 
handsome  building,  erected  by  the  great  Mr.  Blank,  is  one  of 
Mr.  Blank’s  haj^j^iest  efforts,  and  reflects  the  greatest  credit 
iq^on  tlie  intelligent  inhabitants  of  the  city  of  so  and  so  ; 
and  the  building  keeps  the  rain  out  as  well  as  another,  and 
you  remain  in  a jfiacid  state  of  im2)overished  satisfaction 
therewith  ; but  as  for  having  any  real  jfieasure  out  of  it,  yon 
never  ho2:)ed  for  such  a thing.  If  you  really  make  u}:)  a j^arty 
of  jfieasure,  and  get  rid  of  the  forms  and  fashion  of  j^ublic 
2)ro2:)riety  for  an  hour  or  two,  where  do  you  go  for  it  ? Where 
do  3^ou  go  to  eat  strawberries  and  cream  ? To  Boslin  Chapel, 
I believe  ; not  to  the  j)ortico  of  the  last-built  institution. 
What  do  you  see  your  children  doing,  obeying  their  own  nat- 
ural and  true  instincts  ? What  are  your  daughters  drawing 
ujion  their  card-board  screens  as  soon  as  they  can  use  a pencil  ? 
Not  Parthenon  fronts,  I think,  but  the  ruins  of  Melrose  Abbey, 
or  Linlithgow  Palace,  or  Lochleven  Castle,  their  own  jDure 
Scotch  hearts  leading  them  straight  to  the  right  things,  in 
sj^ite  of  all  that  they  are  told  to  the  contrary.  You  i:)erha2)S 
call  tills  romantic,  and  youthful,  and  foolish.  I am  pressed 
for  time  now,  and  I cannot  ask  you  to  consider  the  meaning 
of  the  word  “Komance.”  I will  do  that,  if  you  please,  in 
next  lecture,  for  it  is  a word  of  greater  weight  and  authority 
than  we  comm'only  believe.  In  the  meantime,  I will  en< 
deavour,  lastly,  to  show  j^ou,  not  the  romantic,  but  the  plain 
and  jiractical  conclusions  which  should  follow  from  the  facts 
I have  laid  before  you. 

I have  endeavoured  briefly  to  out  to  you  the  jircy 


AND  PAINTING. 


245 


priety  and  naturalness  of  the  two  great  Gothic  forms,  the 
pointed  arch  and  gable  roof.  I wish  now  to  tell  you  in  what 
way  they  ought  to  be  introduced  into  modern  domestic  archi- 
tecture. 

You  will  all  admit  that  there  is  neither  romance  nor  com- 
fort in  waiting  at  your  own  or  at  any  one  else’s  door  on  a 
windy  and  rainy  day,  till  the  servant  comes  from  the  end  of 
the  house  to  open  You  all  know  the  critical  nature  of 
that  opening — the  drift  of  wind  into  the  passage,  the  impossi- 
bility of  putting  down  the  umbrella  at  the  proper  moment 
without  getting  a cupful  of  water  droj^ped  down  the  back  of 
your  neck  from  the  top  of  the  doorway  ; and  you  know  how 
little  these  inconveniences  are  abated  by  the  common  Greek 
l^ortico  at  the  top  of  the  steps.  You  know  how  the  east  winds 
blow  through  those  unlucky  couples  of  pillai'S,  which  are  all 
that  your  architects  find  consistent  with  due  observance  of 
the  Doric  order.  Then,  away  with  these  absurdities ; and 
the  next  house  you  build,  insist  upon  having  the  pure  old 
Gothic  porch,  walled  in  on  both  sides,  with  its  pointed  arch 
entrance  and  gable  roof  above.  Under  that,  you  can  put 
down  your  umbrella  at  your  leisure,  and,  if  you  will,  stop  a 
moment  to  talk  with  your  friend  as  you  give  him  the  parting 
shake  of  the  hand.  And  if  now  and  then  a wayfarer  found 
a moment’s  rest  on  a stone  seat  on  each  side  of  it,  I believe 
you  would  find  the  insides  of  your  houses  not  one  whit  the 
less  comfortable  ; and,  if  you  answer  me,  that  were  such  ref- 
uges built  in  the  open  streets,  they  would  become  mere  nests 
of  filthy  vagrants,  I reply  that  I do  not  despair  of  such  a 
change  in  the  administration  of  the  poor  laws  of  this  country, 
as  shall  no  longer  leave  any  of  our  fellow-creatures  iu  a state 
in  which  they  would  pollute  the  steps  of  our  houses  by  rest- 
ing upon  them  for  a night.  But  if  not,  the  command  to  all 
of  us  is  strict  and  straight,  “When  thou  seest  the  naked, 
that  thou  cover  him,  and  that  thou  bring  the  poor  that  are 
cast  out  to  thy  house.”  * Not  to  the  workhouse,  observe,  but 
to  thy  house  : and  I say  it  would  be  better  a thousand-fold, 
that  our  doors  should  be  beset  by  the  poor  day  by  day,  than 
* Isai.  Iviii.  7. 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


24:G 

that  it  should  be  written  of  any  one  of  us,  “ They  reap  every 
one  his  corn  in  the  field,  and  they  gather  the  vintage  of  the 
wicked.  They  cause  the  naked  to  lodge  without  shelter,  that 
they  have  no  covering  in  the  cold.  They  are  wet  with  the 
showers  of  the  mountains,  and  embrace  the  rock,  for  want  of 
a shelter.” 

This,  then,  is  the  first  use  to  which  your  pointed  arches 
and  gable  roofs  are  to  be  put.  The  second  is  of  more  per- 
sonal pleasureableness.  You  surely  mu^t  all  of  you  feel  and 
admit  the  delightfulness  of  a bow  window  ; I can  hardly  fancy 
a room  can  be  perfect  without  one.  Now  you  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  resolve  that  every  one  of  your  principal  rooms 
shall  have  a bow  window,  either  large  or  small.  Sustain  the 
projection  of  it  on  a bracket,  crown  it  above  with  a little 
peaked  roof,  and  give  a massy  piece  of  stone  sculpture  to  the 
pointed  arch  in  each  of  its  casements,  and  you  will  have  as 
inexhaustible  a source  of  quaint  richness  in  your  street  archi- 
tecture, as  of  additional  comfort  and  delight  in  the  interiors 
of  your  rooms. 

Thirdly  ; as  respects  windows  which  do  not  project.  You 
will  find  that  the  proposal  to  build  them  with  pointed  arches 
is  met  by  an  objection  on  the  part  of  your  architects,  that  you 
cannot  fit  them  with  comfortable  sashes.  I beg  leave  to  tell 
you  that  such  an  objection  is  utterly  futile  and  ridiculous.  I 
have  lived  for  months  in  Gothic  palaces,  with  pointed  win- 
dows of  the  most  complicated  forms,  fitted  wdth  modern 
sashes  ; and  wdth  the  most  perfect  comfort.  But  granting 
that  the  objection  were  a true  one — and  I suppose  it  is  true 
to  just  this  extent,  that  it  may  cost  some  few  shillings  more 
per  window  in  the  first  instance  to  set  the  fittings  to  a pointed 
arch  than  to  a square  one — there  is  not  the  smallest  necessity 
for  the  aperture  of  the  window  being  of  the  pointed  shape. 
Make  the  uppermost  or  bearing  arch  pointed  only,  and  make 
the  top  of  the  window  square,  filling  the  interval  with  a stone 
shield,  and  you  may  have  a perfect  school  of  architecture,  not 
only  consistent  with,  but  eminently  conducive  to,  every  com- 
fort of  your  daily  life.  The  window  in  Oakham  Castle  {fig.  2.) 

* Job,  xxiv.  6 — 8. 


AND  PAINTING. 


247 


js  an  example  of  such  a form  as  actually  employed  in  the  thir- 
teenth century  ; and  I shall  have  to  notice  another  in  the  course 
of  next  lecture.  Meanwhile,  I have  but  one  word  to  say  in 
conclusion.  Whatever  has  been  advanced  in  the  course  of 
this  evening,  has  rested  on  the  assumption  that  all  architect- 
ure was  to  be  of  brick  and  stone  ; and  may  meet  with  some 
hesitation  in  its  acceptance,  on  account  of  the  probable  use  of 
iron,  glass,  and  such  other  materials  in  our  future  edifices. 
I cannot  now  enter  into  any  statement  of  the  possible  uses  of 
iron  or  glass,  but  I will  give  you  one  reason,  which  I think 
will  weigh  strongly  wfith  most  here,  why  it  is  not  likely  that 
they  will  ever  become  important  elements  in  architectural 
effect.  I know  that  I am  speaking  to  a company  of  philoso- 
phers, but  you  are  not  philosophers  of  the  kind  who  suppose 
that  the  Bible  is  a superannuated  book ; neither  are  3^ou  of 
those  who  think  the  Bible  is  dishonoured  by  being  referred 
to  for  judgment  in  small  matters.  The  very  diviniW  of  the 
Book  seems  to  me,  on  the  contrary,  to  justify  us  in  referring 
every  thing  to  it,  with  respect  to  which  any  conclusion  can  be 
gathered  from  its  pages.  Assuming  then  that  the  Bible  is 
neither  superannuated  now,  nor  ever  likely  to  be  so,  it  will 
follow  that  the  illustrations  which  the  Bible  employs  are  likely 
to  be  clear  and  intelligible  illustrations  to  the  end  of  time.  T 
do  not  mean  that  every  thing  spoken  of  in  the  Bible  histories 
must  continue  to  endure  for  ail  time,  but  that  the  things 
which  the  Bible  uses  for  illustration  of  eternal  truths  are  likely 
to  remain  eternally  intelligible  illustrations.  Now  I find  that 
iron  architecture  is  indeed  spoken  of  in  the  Bible.  You 
know  how  it  is  said  to  Jeremiah,  “ Behold,  I have  made  thee 
this  day  a defenced  city,  and  an  iron  pillar,  and  brazen  walls, 
against  the  whole  land.”  But  I do  not  find  that  iron  building 
is  ever  alluded  to  as  likely  to  become  familiar  to  the  minds  of 
men ; but,  on  the  contrary,  that  an  architecture  of  carved 
stone  is  continually  employed  as  a source  of  the  most  import- 
ant illustrations.  A simple  instance  must  Occur  to  all  of  you 
at  once.  The  force  of  the  image  of  the  Corner  Stone,  as  used 
throughout  Scripture,  would  completely  be  lost,  if  the  Chris- 
tian and  civilized  world  were  ever  extensively  to  employ  any 


248 


LECTUUKS  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


other  material  than  earth  and  rock  in  their  domestic  buikh 
ings ; I firmly  believe  that  they  never  will  ; but  that  as  the 
laws  of  beauty  are  more  perfectly  established,  we  shall  be  con- 
tent still  to  build  as  our  forefathers  built,  and  still  to  receive 
the  same  great  lessons  which  such  building  is  calculated 
to  convey  ; of  which  one  is  indeed  never  to  be  forgotten. 
Among  the  questions  respecting  towers  which  were  laid  before 
you  to-night,  one  has  been  omitted  : “ What  man  is  there  of 
you  intending  to  build  a tower  that  sitteth  not  down  first  and 
counteth  the  cost,  whether  he  have  sufficient  to  finish  it  ? ” I 
have  pressed  u2)on  you,  this  evening,  the  building  of  domestic 
towers.  You  may  think  it  right  to  dismiss  the  subject  at 
once  from  your  thoughts  ; but  let  us  not  do  so,  without  con- 
sidering, each  of  us,  how  far  that  tower  has  been  built,  and 
how  truly  its  cost  has  been  counted. 


LECTUEE  II. 

Before  proceeding  to  the  principal  subject  of  this  evening, 
I wish  to  anticipate  one  or  two  objections  which  may  arise  in 
your  minds  to  what  I must  lay  before  you.  It  may  perhaps 
have  been  felt  by  you  last  evening,  that  some  things  I pro- 
2)osed  to  you  were  either  romantic  or  Utopian.  Let  us  think 
for  a few  moments  what  romance  and  Utopianism  mean. 

First,  romance.  In  consequence  of  the  many  absurd  fic- 
tions which  long  formed  the  elements  of  romance  writing,  the 
word  romance  is  sometimes  taken  as  synonymous  with  false- 
hood. Thus  the  French  talk  of  Des  Romans,  and  thus  the 
English  use  the  word  Bomancing. 

But  in  this  sense  we  had  much  better  use  the  word  false- 
hood at  once.  It  is  far  plainer  and  clearer.  And  if  in  this 
sense  I put  anything  romantic  before  you,  i^ray  pay  no  atten- 
tion to  it,  or  to  me. 

In  the  second  place.  Because  young  people  are  particularly 
apt  to  indulge  in  reverie,  and  imaginative  pleasures,  and  to 
neglect  their  plain  and  practical  duties  the  word  romantic  has 
come  to  signify  weak,  foolish,  speculative,  unpractical,  urn 


AND  PAINTING. 


249 


principled.  In  all  these  cases  it  would  be  much  better  to  say 
weak,  foolish,  unpractical,  unprincipled.  The  words  are  clearer. 
If  in  this  sense,  also  I put  anything  romantic  before  you,  pray 
pay  no  attention  to  me. 

Bub  ill  the  third  and  last  place.  The  real  and  proper  use 
of' the  word  romantic  is  simply  to  characterise  an  improbable 
or  unaccustomed  degree  of  beauty,  sublimit}^,  or  virtue.  For 
instance,  in  matters  of  history,  is  not  the  Retreat  of  the  Ten 
Thousand  romantic  ? Is  not  the  death  of  Leonidas  ? of  the 
Horatii  ? On  the  other  hand,  j’ou  find  nothing  romantic, 
though  much  that  is  monstrous,  in  the  excesses  of  Tiberius 
or  Commodus.  So  again,  the  battle  of  Agincourt  is  romantic, 
and  of  Bannockburn,  simply  because  there  was  an  extraor- 
dinary display  of  human  virtue  in  both  those  battles.  But 
there  is  no  romance  in  the  battles  of  the  last  Italian  campaign, 
in  which  mere  feebleness  and  distrust  were  on  one  side,  mere 
physical  force  on  the  other.  And  even  in  fiction,  the  oppo- 
nents of  virtue,  in  order  to  be  romantic,  must  have  sublimity 
mingled  with  their  vice.  It  is  not  the  knave,  not  the  ruffian, 
that  are  romantic,  but  the  giant  and  the  dragon  ; and  these, 
not  because  they  are  false,  but  because  they  are  majestic.  So 
again  as  to  beauty.  You  feel  that  armour  is  romantic  because 
it  is  a beautiful  dress,  and  you  are  not  used  to  it.  You  do  not 
feel  there  is  anything  romantic  in  the  paint  and  shells  of  a 
Sandwich  Islander,  for  these  are  not  beautiful. 

So,  then,  observe,  this  feehng  which  you  are  accustomed  to 
despise — this  secret  and  poetical  enthusiasm  in  all  your  hearts, 
which,  as  practical  men,  you  try  to  restrain — is  indeed  one  of 
the  holiest  parts  of  your  being.  It  is  the  instinctive  delight 
in,  and  admiration  for,  sublimity,  beauty,  and  virtue,  unusu- 
ally manifested.  And  so  far  from  being  a dangerous  guide, 
it  is  the  truest  part  of  your  being.  It  is  even  truer  than  your 
consciences.  A man’s  conscience  may  be  utterly  perverted  and 
led  astray  ; but  so  long  as  the  feelings  of  romance  endure 
within  us,  they  are  unerring — they  are  as  time  to  what  is  right 
and  lovely  as  the  needle  to  the  north  ; and  all  that  you  have 
to  do  is  to  add  to  the  enthusiastic  sentiment,  the  majestic 
judgment — to  mingle  prudence  and  foresight  with  imagination 


250 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


and  admiration,  and  you  have  the  perfect  Imman  soul.  But 
the  great  evil  of  these  days  is  that  we  try  to  destroy  the  ro- 
mantic feeling,  instead  of  bridling  and  directing  it.  Mark 
what  Young  says  of  the  men  of  the  world  : 

“ They,  wlio  think  nouglit  so  strong  of  the  romance. 

So  rank  knight-errant,  as  a real  friend.” 

And  they  are  right.  True  friendship  is  romantic,  to  the 
men  of  the  world — true  affection  is  romantic — true  religion  is 
romantic  ; and  if  you  were  to  ask  me  who  of  all  powerful  and 
popular  writers  in  the  cause  of  error  had  wrought  most  harm 
to  their  race,  I should  hesitate  in  reply  whether  to  name  Vol- 
taire or  Byron,  or  the  last  most  ingenious  and  most  venomous 
of  the  degraded  philosophers  of  Germany,  or  rather  Cervantes, 
for  he  cast  scorn  upon  the  holiest  principles  of  humanity — he, 
of  all  men,  most  helped  forward  the  terrible  change  in  the  sol- 
diers of  Europe,  from  the  spirit  of  Bayard  to  the  spirit  of 
Bonaparte,^  helped  to  change  loyalty  into  license,  protection 
into  plunder,  truth  into  treachery,  chivalry  into  selfishness  ; 
and  since  his  time,  the  purest  impulses  and  the  noblest  pur- 
poses have  perhaps  been  oftener  stayed  by  the  devil,  under  the 
name  of  Quixotism,  than  under  any  other  base  name  or  false 
allegation. 

Quixotism,  or  Utopianism  : that  is  another  of  the  devil’s 
pet  words.  I believe  the  quiet  admission  which  we  are  all  of 
us  so  ready  to  make,  that,  because  things  have  long  been 
wrong,  it  is  impossible  they  should  ever  be  right,  is  one  of 
the  most  fatal  sources  of  misery  and  crime  from  which  this 
world  suffers.  Whenever  you  hear  ^ man  dissuading  you 
from  attempting  to  do  well,  on  the  ground  that  perfection 
is  “ Utopian,”  beware  of  that  man.  Cast  the  word  out  of 
your  dictionary  altogether.  There  is  no  need  for  it.  Things 
are  either  possible  or  impossible — you  can  easily  determine 
which,  in  any  given  state  of  human  science.  If  the  thing  is 

* I mean  no  scandal  against  i\iQ present  emperor  of  tlie  Frencli,  whose 
truth  has,  I believe,  been  as  conspicuous  in  the  late  political  negotia- 
tions, as  his  decision  and  prudence  have  been  throughout  the  wliole 
coui’se  of  his  government. 


AND  DAINTING. 


251 


impossible,  you  need  not  trouble  yourselves  about  it  ; if  pos- 
sible, try  for  it.  It  is  very  Utopian  to  hope  for  the  entire 
doing  away  with  drunkenness  and  misery  out  of  the  Canon- 
gate  ; but  the  Utopianism  is  not  our  business — the  work  is. 
It  is  Utopian  to  hope  to  give  every  child  in  this  kingdom  the 
knowledge  of  God  from  its  youth  ; but  the  Utopianism  is  not 
our  business — the  loork  is. 

I have  delayed  you  by  the  consideration  of  these  two  words, 
only  in  the  fear  that  they  might  be  inaccurately  applied  to 
the  plans  I am  going  to  lay  before  you  ; for,  though  they 
were  Utopian,  and  though  they  were  romantic,  they  might 
be  none  the  worse  for  that.  But  they  are  neither.  Utopian 
they  are  not ; for  they  are  merely  a proposal  to  do  again 
what  has  been  done  for  hundreds  of  years  by  people  whose 
wealth  and  power  were  as  nothing  compared  to  ours  ; — and 
romantic  they  are  not,  in  the  sense  of  self-sacrificing  or  emi- 
nently virtuous,  for  they  are  merely  the  proposal  to  each  of 
you  that  he  should  live  in  a handsomer  house  than  he  does 
at  present,  by  substituting  a cheap  mode  of  ornamentation 
for  a costly  one.  You  perhaps  fancied  that  architectural 
beauty  was  a very  costly  thing.  Far  from  it.  It  is  architec- 
tural ugliness  that  is  costly.  In  the  modern  system  of  archi- 
tecture, decoration  is  immoderately  expensive,  because  it 
is  both  wrongly  placed  and  wrongly  finished.  I say  first, 
wrongly  placed.  Modern  architects  decorate  the  tops  of 
their  buildings.  Mediaeval  ones  decorated  the  bottom.^ 
That  makes  all  the  difference  between  seeing  the  ornament 
and  not  seeing  it.  If  you  bought  some  pictures  to  decorate 
such  a room  as  this,  where  would  you  put  them  ? On  a level 
with  the  eye,  I suppose,  or  nearly  so  ? Not  on  a level  with 
the  chandelier?  If  you  were  determined  to  put  them  up 
.there,  round  the  cornice,  it  would  be  better  for  you  not  to 
buy  them  at  all.  You  would  merely  throw  your  money  away. 
And  the  fact  is,  that  your  money  is  being  thrown  away  con- 
tinually, by  wholesale  ; and  while  you  are  dissuaded,  on  the 
ground  of  expense,  from  building  beautiful  windows  and 

* For  farther  confirmation  of  this  statement,  see  the  Addenda  at  the 
end  of  this  lecture. 


253 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


beautiful  doors,  you  are  continually  made  to  pay  for  ornai 
merits  at  tlie  tops  of  your  houses,  which,  for  all  the  use  they 
are  of,  might  as  well  be  in  the  moon.  For  instance,  there  is 
not,  on  the  whole,  a more  studied  piece  of  domestic  architect- 
ure in  Edinburgh  than  the  street  in  which  so  many  of  your 
excellent  physicians  live — Rutland  Street.  I do  not  know  if 
you  have  observed  its  architecture  ; but  if  you  will  look  at  it 
to-morrow,  you  will  see  that  a heavy  and  close  balustrade  is 
put  all  along  the  eaves  of  the  houses.  Your  physicians  are 
not,  I suppose,  in  the  habit  of  taking  academic  and  medita- 
tive walks  on  the  roofs  of  their  houses  ; and,  if  not,  this  bal- 
ustrade is  altogether  useless, — nor  merely  useless,  for  3'ou 
will  find  it  runs  directly  in  front  of  all  the  garret  windows, 
thus  interfering  with  their  light,  and  blocking  out  their  view 
of  the  street.  All  that  the  parapet  is  meant  to  do,  is  to  give 
some  finish  to  the  fa9ades,  and  the  inhabitants  have  thus  been 
made  to  pay  a large  sum  for  a piece  of  mere  decoration. 
AVhether  it  does  finish  the  fayades  satisfactorily,  or  whether 
the  physicians  resident  in  the  street,  or  their  patients,  are  in 
anywise  edified  by  the  succession  of  pear-shaped  knobs  of 
stone  on  their  house-tops,  I leave  them  to  tell  you,  only  do 
not  fancy  that  the  design,  whatever  its  success,  is  an  economi- 
cal one. 

But  this  is  a very  slight  waste  of  money,  compared  to  the 
constant  habit  of  putting  careful  sculpture  at  the  tops  of 
houses.  A temple  of  luxury  has  just  been  built  in  London, 
for  the  army  and  navy  club.  It  cost  £40,000,  exclusive  of 
purchase  of  ground.  It  has  upon  it  an  enormous  quantity  of 
sculpture,  representing  the  gentlemen  of  the  navy  as  little 
boys  riding  upon  dolphins,  find  the  gentlemen  of  the  army— 
I couldn’t  see  as  what — nor  can  anybody  ; for  all  this  sculpt- 
ure is  put  up  at  the  top  of  the  house,  where  the  gutter 
should  be,  under  the  cornice.  I know  that  this  was  a Greek 
way  of  doing  things.  I can’t  help  it : that  does  not  make  it 
a wise  one.  Greeks  might  be  willing  to  pay  for  Avhat  they 
couldn’t  see,  but  Scotchmen  and  Englishmen  shouldn’t. 

Not  that  the  Greeks  threw  their  work  away  as  we  do. 
As  far  as  I know  Greek  buildings,  their  ornamentation* 


AND  PAINTING. 


253 


tliongli  often  bad,  is  alwa^^s  bold  enongli  and  large  enougli  to 
be  visible  in  its  place.  It  is  not  putting  ornament  high  that 
is  wrong  ; but  it  is  cutting  it  too  tine  to  be  seen,  wherever  it 
is.  This  is  the  great  modern  mistake  ; you  are  actually  at 
twice  the  cost  which  would  produce  an  impressive  ornament, 
to  produce  a contemptible  one  ; you  increase  the  price  of 
your  buildings  by  one-half,  in  order  to  mince  their  decoration 
into  invisibility.  Walk  through  your  streets,  and  try  to  make 
out  the  ornaments  on  the  upper  parts  of  your  fine  buildings 
—(there  are  none  at  the  bottoms  of  them).  Don’t  do  it  long, 
or  you  will  all  come  home  with  inflamed  eyes,  but  you  will 
soon  discover  that  you  can  see  nothing  but  confusion  in  orna- 
ments that  have  cost  you  ten  or  twelve  shillings  a foot. 

Now  the  Gothic  builders  placed  their  decoration  on  a pre- 
cisely contrary  principle,  and  on  the  only  rational  principle. 
All  their  best  and  most  delicate  work  they  put  on  the  founda- 
tion of  the  building,  close  to  the  spectator,  and  on  the  upper 
parts  of  the  walls  they  put  ornaments  large,  bold,  and  capable 
of  being  plainly  seen  at  the  necessary  distance.  A single  ex- 
ample will  enable  you  to  understand  this  method  of  adaptation 
perfectly.  The  lower  part  of  the  fa9ade  of  the  cathedral  of 
Lyons,  built  either  late  in  the  thirteenth  or  early  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  is  decorated  with  a series  of  niches,  filled  by 
statues  of  considerable  size,  which  are  supported  upon  pedes- 
tals within  about  eight  feet  of  the  ground.  In  general,  pedes- 
tals of  this  kind  are  supported  on  some  projecting  portion  of 
the  basement  ; but  at  Lyons,  owing  to  other  arrangements  of 
the  architecture  into  which  I have  no  time  to  enter,  they  are 
merely  projecting  tablets,  or  flat-bottomed  brackets  of  stone, 
projecting  from  the  wall.  Each  bracket  is  about  a foot  and 
a half  square,  and  is  shaped  thus  [fig.  13.),  showing  to  the 
spectator,  as  he  walks  beneath,  the  flat  bottom  of  each  bracket, 
quite  in  the  shade,  but  within  a couple  of  feet  of  the  eye,  and 
lighted  by  the  reflected  light  from  the  pavement.  The  whole 
of  the  surface  of  the  wall  round  the  great  entrance  is  covered 
with  bas-relief,  as  a matter  of  course  ; but  the  architect  a]3- 
pears  to  have  been  jealous  of  the  smallest  space  which  was 
well  within  the  range  of  sight ; and  the  hotiom  of  every 


LECTURES  ON  ARCIIITECTURE 


25-i: 


bracket  is  decorated  also — nor  that  slightly,  but  decorated 
with  no  fewer  than  i^ix  fyjai'cs  each,  besidea  a Jlowei'  border,  in 
a si)ace,  as  I said,  not  quite  a fool  and  a half  .square.  The 
shape  of  the  field  to  be  decorated  being  a kind  of  quatrefoil, 
as  shown  in  fuj.  13.,  four  small  figures  are  placed,  one  in  each 
foil,  and  two  larger  ones  in  the  centre.  I had  only  time, 
in  passing  through  the  town,  to  make  a dravfing  of  one  of 
the  angles  of  these  2)edestals  ; that  sketch  I have  enlarged, 
ill  order  that  you  may  have  some  idea  of  the  character 
of  the  sculpture.  Here  is  the  enlargement  of  it  (fig.  15.). 
Now  observe,  this  is  one  of  the  angles  of  the  bottom  of 
a pedestal,  not  two  feet  broad,  on  the  outside  of  a Gothic 
building ; it  contains  only  one  of  the  four  little  figures 
which  form  those  angles  ; and  it  shows  you  the  head  only  of 
one  of  the  larger  figures  in  the  centre.  Yet  just  observe  how 
much  design,  how  much  wonderful  composition,  there  is  in 
this  mere  fragment  of  a building  of  the  great  times  ; a frag- 
ment, literally  no  larger  than  a schoolboy  could  strike  off  in 
wantonness  with  a stick  : and  yet  I cannot  tell  you  how  much 
care  has  been  spent — not  so  much  on  the  execution,  for  it 
does  not  take  much  trouble  to  execute  well  on  so  small  a 
scale — but  on  the  design,  of  this  minute  fragment.  You  see 
it  is  composed  of  a branch  of  wild  roses,  which  switches 
round  at  the  angle,  embracing  the  minute  figure  of  the 
bishop,  and  terminates  in  a spray  reaching  nearly  to  the  head 
of  the  large  figure.  You  will  observe  how  beautifully  that 
figure  is  thus  pointed  to  by  the  spray  of  rose,  and  how  all  the 
leaves  around  it  in  the  same  manner  are  subservient  to  the 
grace  of  its  action.  Look,  if  I hide  one  line,  ol.’  one  rosebud, 
how  the  whole  is  injured,  and  how  much  there  is  to  study,  in 
the  detail  of  it.  Look  at  this  little  diamond  crown,  with  a 
lock  of  the  hair  escaping  from  beneath  it ; and  at  the  beau- 
tiful way  in  which  the  tiny  leaf  at  a,  is  set  in  the  angle  to  pre- 
vent its  harshness ; and  having  examined  this  well,  consider 
what  a treasure  of  thought  there  is  in  a cathedral  front,  a 
hundred  feet  wide,  every  inch  of  which  is  wrought  with  sculpt- 
ure like  this  ! And  every  front  of  our  thirteenth  century 
cathedrals  is  inwrought  with  sculpture  of  this  (quality  ! And 


AND  PAINTING. 


255 


yet  you  quietly  allow  yourselves  to  be  told  that  the  men  who 
thus  wrought  were  barbarians,  and  that  your  architects  are 
wiser  and  better  in  covering  your  walls  with  sculpture  of  this 
kind  [fig.  14.  plate  8.). 

Walk  round  your  Edinburgh  buildings,  and  look  at  the 
height  of  your  eye,  what  you  will  get  from  them.  Nothing 
but  square-cut  stone — square-cut  stone — a wilderness  of 
square-cut  stone  for  ever  and  for  ever  ; so  that  your  houses 
look  like  prisons,  and  truly  are  so  ; for  the  worst  feature  of 
Greek  architecture  is,  indeed,  not  its  costliness,  but  its  tyr- 
anny. These  square  stones  are  not  prisons  of  the  body,  but 
graves  of  the  soul ; for  the  very  men  who  could  do  sculpture 
like  this  of  Lyons  for  you  are  here ! still  here,  in  your  de- 
spised workmen  : the  race  has  not  degenerated,  it  is  you  who 
have  bound  them  down,  and  buried  them  beneath  your  Greek 
stones.  There  would  be  a resurrection  of  them,  as  of  re- 
newed souls,  if  you  would  only  lift  the  weight  of  these  weary 
walls  from  off  their  hearts.* 

But  I am  leaving  the  point  immediately  in  question,  which, 
you  will  remember,  was  the  proper  adaptation  of  ornament  to 
its  distance  from  the  eye.  I have  given  you  one  example  of 
Gothic  ornament,  meant  to  be  seen  close  ; now  let  me  give 
you  one  of  Gothic  ornament  intended  to  be  seen  far  off. 
Here  [fig.  16.)  is  a sketch  of  a niche  at  Amiens  Cathedral, 
some  fifty  or  sixty  feet  high  on  the  fa§ade,  and  seven  or 
eight  feet  wide.  Now  observe,  in  the  ornament  close  to  the 
eye,  you  had  six  figures  and  a whole  wreath  of  roses  in  the 
space  of  a foot  and  a half  square  ; but  in  the  ornament  sixty 
feet  from  the  eye,  you  have  now  only  ten  or  twelve  large 
leaves  in  a space  of  eight  feet  square  ! and  note  also  that  now 
there  is  no  attempt  whatsoever  at  the  refinement  of  line  and 
finish  of  edge  which  there  W’as  in  the  other  example.  The 
sculptor  knew,  that  at  the  height  of  this  niche,  people  would 
not  attend  to  the  delicate  lines,  and  that  the  broad  shadows 
would  catch  the  eye  instead.  He  has  therefore  left,  as  you 
see,  rude  square  edges  to  his  niche,  and  carved  his  leaves  as 

* This  subject  is  farther  pursued  in  the  Addenda  at  the  end  of  this 
Lecture. 


LECTUliK8  ON  AKCniTKCTUllE 


25f> 

massively  and  broadly  as  possible  ; and  yet,  observe  bow  dex- 
terously be  lias  given  you  a sense  of  delicacy  and  minuteness 
in  tbe  work,  by  mingling  these  small  leaves  among  tbe  largo 
ones.  I made  tbis  sketcb  from  a pbotograpb,  and  tbe  spot 
in  wbicb  these  leaves  occurred  was  obscure  ; I have,  there- 
fore, used  those  of  tbe  Oxalis  acetosella,  of  wbicb  tbe  quaint 
form  is  always  interesting. 

And  you  see  by  tbis  example  also  what  I meant  just  now 
by  saying,  that  our  own  ornament  was  not  only  wrongly 
placed,  but  wrongly  finished.  Tbe  very  qualities  wbicb  fit 
tbis  leaf-decoration  for  due  effect  upon  tbe  eye,  are  those 
wbicb  would  conduce  to  economy  in  its  execution.  A more 
expensive  ornament  would  be  less  effective  ; and  it  is  tbe 
very  price  we  pay  for  finishing  our  decorations  wbicb  spoils 
our  architecture.  And  tbe  curious  thing  is,  that  while  you 
all  appreciate,  and  that  far  too  highly,  what  is  called  “ tbe 
bold  style  ” in  painting,  you  cannot  appreciate  it  in  sculpture. 
You  like  a hurried,  broad,  dashing  manner  of  execution  in  a 
watercolour  drawing,  though  that  may  be  seen  as  near  as  you 
choose,  and  yet  you  refuse  to  admit  tbe  nobleness  of  a bold, 
simple,  and  dashing  stroke  of  tbe  chisel  in  work  wbicb  is  to 
be  seen  forty  fathoms  off.  Be  assured  that  “ handling  ” is  as 
great  a thing  in  marble  as  in  paint,  and  that  tbe  power  of 
producing  a masterly  effect  with  few  touches  is  as  essential  in 
an  architect  as  in  a draughtsman,  though  indeed  that  ]Dower 
is  never  perfectly  attained  except  by  those  who  possess  the 
power  of  giving  the  highest  finish  when  there  is  occasion. 

But  there  is  yet  another  and  a weightier  charge  to  be 
brought  against  our  modern  Pseudo-Greek  ornamentation. 
It  is,  first,  wrongly  placed  ; secondly,  wrongly  finished  ; and, 
thirdly,  utterly  ivithout  meaning.  Observe  in  these  two 
Gothic  ornaments,  and  in  every  other  ornament  that  ever  was 
carved  in  the  great  Gothic  times,  there  is  a definite  aim  at 
the  representation  of  some  natural  object.  In  fig.  15.  you 
have  an  exquisite  group  of  rose-stems,  with  the  flow'ers  and 
buds  ; mfig.  16.,  various  wild  weeds,  especially  the  Geranium 
pratense  ; in  every  case  you  have  an  approximation  to  a nat- 
ural form,  and  an  unceasing  variety  of  suggestion  But  how 


AND  PAINTING. 


257 


much  of  nature  have  you  in  your  Greek  buildings?  I will 
show  you,  taking  for  an  example  the  best  you  have  lately 
built  ; and,  in  doing  so,  I trust  that  nothing  that  I say  will  be 
thought  to  have  any  personal  purpose,  and  that  the  architect 
of  the  building  in  question  will  forgive  me  ; for  it  is  just  be- 
cause it  is  a good  example  of  the  style  that  I think  it  more 
fair  to  use  it  for  an  example.  If  the  building  were  a bad  one 
of  the  kind,  it  would  not  be  a fair  instance  ; and  I hope, 
therefore,  that  in  speaking  of  the  institution  on  the  mound, 
just  in  progress,  I shall  be  understood  as  meaning  rather  a 
compliment  to  its  architect  than  otherwise.  It  is  not  his 
fault  that  we  force  him  to  build  in  the  Greek  manner. 

Now,  according  to  the  orthodox  practice  in  modern  archi- 
tecture, the  most  delicate  and  minute  pieces  of  sculpture  on 
that  building  are  at  the  very  top  of  it,  just  under  its  gutter. 
You  cannot  see  them  in  a dark  day,  and  perhaps  may  never, 
to  this  hour,  have  noticed  them  at  all.  But  there  they  are, 
sixty-six  finished  heads  of  lions,  all  exactly  the  same ; and, 
therefore,  I suppose,  executed  on  some  noble  Greek  type,  too 
noble  to  allow  any  modest  Modern  to  think  of  improving 
upon  it.  But  whether  executed  on  a Greek  tj^'pe  or  no,  it  is  to 
be  presumed  that,  as  there  are  sixty-six  of  them  alike,  and  on 
so  important  a building  as  that  which  is  to  contain  your  school 
of  design,  and  which  is  the  principal  example  of  the  Athenian 
style  in  modern  Athens,  there  must  be  something  especially 
admirable  in  them,  and  deserving  your  most  attentive  con- 
templation. In  order,  therefore,  that  you  might  have  a fair 
opportunity  of  estimating  their  beauty,  I was  desirous  of  get- 
ting a sketch  of  a real  lion’s  head  to  compare  with  them,  and 
my  friend  Mr.  Millais  kindly  offered  to  draw  both  the  one  and 
the  other  for  me.  You  have  not,  however,  at  present,  a lion 
in  your  zoological  collection  ; and  it  being,  as  3'ou  are  prob- 
ably aware,  the  first  principle  of  Pre-Baphaelitism,  as  well  as 
essential  to  my  object  in  the  present  instance,  that  no  drawing 
should  be  made  except  from  nature  itself,  I was  obliged  to  be 
content  with  a tiger’s  head,  which,  however,  will  answer  my 
purpose  just  as  well,  in  enabling  you  to  compare  a piece  of 
true,  faithful,  and  natural  work  with  modern  architectural 


258 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


sculjoture.  Here,  in  the  first  place,  is  Mr.  Millais’  drawing 
from  the  living  beast  {fig.  17.).  I have  not  the  least  fear  but 
that  you  will  at  once  acknowledge  its  truth  and  feel  its  power. 
Prepare  yourselves  next  for  the  Grecian  sublimity  of  the  ideal 
beast,  from  the  cornice  of  your  schools  of  design.  Behold  it 
[fig.  18.). 

Now  we  call  ourselves  civilized  and  refined  in  matters  of 
art,  but  I assure  you  it  is  seldom  that,  in  the  very  basest  and 
coarsest  grotesques  of  the  inferior  Gothic  workmen,  anything 
so  contemptible  as  this  head  can  be  ever  found.  They  only 
sink  into  such  a failure  accidentally,  and  in  a single  instance  ; 
and  we,  in  our  civilization,  repeat  this  noble  piece  of  work 
threescore  and  six  times  over,  as  not  being  able  to  invent  any^ 
thing  else  so  good ! Do  not  think  Mr.  Millais  has  caricatured 
it.  It  is  drawn  with  the  strictest  fidelity  ; photograph  ODe  of 
the  heads  to-morrow,  and  you  will  find  the  photograjDh  tell 
you  the  same  tale.  Neither  imagine  that  this  is  an  unusual 
example  of  modern  work.  Your  banks  and  public  offices  are 
covered  with  ideal  lions’  heads  in  every  direction,  and  you 
will  find  them  all  just  as  bad  as  this.  And,  farther,  note  that 
the  admission  of  such  barbarous  types  of  sculpture  is  not 
merely  ridiculous ; it  is  seriously  harmful  to  your  pov/ers  of 
perceiving  truth  and  beauty  of  any  kind  or  at  any  time.  Im- 
agine the  effect  on  the  minds  of  your  children  of  having  such 
representations  of  a lion’s  head  as  this  thrust  upon  them  per- 
petually ; and  consider  what  a different  effect  might  be  pro- 
duced upon  them  if,  instead  of  this  barren  and  insipid  absurd- 
ity, every  boss  on  your  buildings  were,  according  to  the 
workman’s  best  ability,  a faithful  rendering  of  the  form  of 
some  existing  animal,  so  that  all  their  walls  were  so  many 
j^ages  of  natural  history.  And,  finally,  consider  the  difference, 
with  respect  to  the  mind  of  the  workman  himself,  between 
being  kept  all  his  life  carving,  by  sixties,  and  forties,  and  thir- 
ties, rej^etitions  of  one  false  and  futile  model — and  being  sent, 
for  every  piece  of  work  he  had  to  execute,  to  make  a stern 
and  faithful  study  from  some  living  creature  of  God. 

And  this  last  consideration  enables  me  to  press  this  sub- 
ject on  you  on  far  higher  grounds  than  I have  done  yet. 


AND  PAINTING. 


25U 


I have  hitherto  appealed  only  to  your  national  pride,  or  to 
your  common  sense  ; but  surely  I should  treat  a Scottish 
audience  with  indignity  if  I appealed  not  finally  to  something 
higher  than  either  of  them — to  their  religious  principles. 

You  know  how  often  it  is  difficult  to  be  wisely  charitable, 
to  do  good  without  multiplying  the  sources  of  evil.  You 
know  that  to  give  alms  is  nothing  unless  you  give  thought 
also  ; and  that  therefore  it  is  written,  not  “ blessed  is  he  that 
feedeth  the  poor,”  but,  ‘‘blessed  is  he  that  considereth  the 
poor.”  And  you  know  that  a little  thought  and  a little  kind- 
ness are  often  worth  more  than  a great  deal  of  money. 

Now  this  charity  of  thought  is  not  merely  to  be  exercised 
towards  the  poor  ; it  is  to  be  exercised  towards  all  men. 
There  is  assuredly  no  action  of  our  social  life,  however  un- 
important, which,  by  kindly  thought,  may  not  be  made  to 
have  a beneficial  influence  upon  others  ; and  it  is  impossible 
to  spend  the  smallest  sum  of  money,  for  any  not  absolutely 
necessary  purpose,  without  a grave  responsibility  attaching  to 
the  manner  of  spending  it.  The  object  we  ourselves  covet 
may,  indeed,  be  desirable  and  harmless,  so  far  as  we  are  con- 
cerned, but  the  providing  us  with  it  may,  perhaps,  be  a very 
prejudicial  occupation  to  some  one  else.  And  then  it  becomes 
instantly  a moral  question,  whether  we  are  to  indulge  our- 
selves or  not.  Whatever  we  wish  to  buy,  we  ought  first  to 
consider  not  only  if  the  thing  be  fit  for  us,  but  if  the  manu- 
facture of  it  be  a wholesome  and  happy  one  ; and  if,  on  the 
whole,  the  sum  we  are  going  to  spend  will  do  as  much  good 
spent  in  this  way  as  it  would  if  spent  in  any  other  way.  It 
may  be  said  that  we  have  not  time  to  consider- all  this  before 
we  make  a purchase.  But  no  time  could  be  spent  in  a more 
important  duty  ; and  God  never  imposes  a duty  without  giv- 
ing the  time  to  do  it.  Let  us,  however,  only  acknowledge 
the  principle  once  make  up  your  mind  to  allow  the  consid- 
eration of  the  effect  of  your  purchases  to  regulate  the  kind  of 
your  purchase,  and  you  will  soon  easily  find  grounds  enough 
to  decide  upon.  The  plea  of  ignorance  will  never  take  away 
our  responsibilities.  It  is  written,  “If  thou  sayest,  Behold 
we  knew  it  not ; doth  not  he  that  j)ondereth  the  heart  con- 


2(30 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


sider  it  ? and  lie  that  keepeth  thy  soul,  doth  not  he  kno^’^ 
it?” 

I could  press  this  on  you  at  length,  hut  I hasten  to  apply  the 
principle  to  the  subject  of  art.  I will  do  so  broadly  at  first,  and 
then  come  to  architecture.  Enormous  sums  are  spent  annually 
' hy  this  country  in  what  is  called  patronage  of  art,  but  in  what 
is  for  the  most  part  merely  buying  Avhat  strikes  our  fancies. 
True  and  judicious  patronage  there  is  indeed  ; many  a work  of 
art  is  bought  by  those  who  do  not  care  for  its  possession,  to 
assist  the  struggling  artist,  or  relieve  the  unsuccessful  one.  But 
for  the  most  part,  I fear  we  are  too  much  in  the  habit  of  buy- 
ing simply  what  we  like  best,  wholly  irrespective  of  any  good 
to  be  done,  either  to  the  artist  or  to  the  schools  of  the  coun- 
try. Now  let  us  remember,  that  every  farthing  we  spend  on 
objects  of  art  has  influence  over  men’s  minds  and  spirits,  far 
more  than  over  their  bodies.  By  the  purchase  of  every  print 
which  hangs  on  your  walls,  of  every  cup  out  of  which  you 
drink,  and  every  table  off  which  you  eat  your  bread,  you  are 
educating  a mass  of  men  in  one  way  or  another.  You  are 
either  employing  them  healthily  or  unwholesomely  ; you  are 
making  them  lead  hai^x^y  or  unhappy  lives ; you  are  leading 
them  to  look  at  nature,  and  to  love  her — to  think,  to  feel,  to 
enjoy, — or  you  are  blinding  them  to  nature,  and  keeping 
them  bound,  like  beasts  of  burden,  in  mechanical  and  monoto- 
nous employments.  We  shall  all  be  asked  one  day,  why  we 
did  not  think  more  of  this. 

Well  but,  you  will  say,  how  can  we  decide  what  w^e  ought 
to  buy,  but  by  our  likings?  You  w^ould  not  have  us  buy 
what  we  don’t  like  ? No,  but  I would  have  you  thoroughly 
sure  that  there  is  an  absolute  right  and  wrong  in  all  art,  and 
try  to  find  out  the  right,  and  like  that ; and,  secondly,  some- 
times to  sacrifice  a careless  preference  or  fancy,  to  what  you 
know  is  for  the  good  of  j^our  fellow-creatures.  For  instance, 
when  you  spend  a guinea  upon  an  engraving,  what  have  you 
done  ? You  have  paid  a man  for  a certain  number  of  hours 
to  sit  at  a dirty  table,  in  a dirty  room,  inhaling  the  fumes  of 
nitric  acid,  stooping  over  a steel  plate,  on  which,  by  the  help 
of  a magnifying  glass,  he  is,  one  by  one,  laboriously  cutting 


AND  DAINTINO. 


^G1 

out  certain  notches  and  scratches,  of  which  the  effect  is  to  be 
the  copy  of  another  man’s  work.  You  cannot  suppose  you 
have  done  a very  charitable  thing  in  this  ! On  the  other 
hand,  whenever  you  buy  a small  watercolour  drawing,  you 
have  employed  a man  happily  and  healthily,  w^orking  in  a 
clean  room  (if  he  likes),  or  more  probably  still,  out  in  the 
pure  country  and  fresh  air,  thinking  about  something,  and 
learning  something  every  moment ; not  straining  his  eye- 
sight, nor  breaking  his  back,  but  working  in  ease  and  happi- 
ness. Therefore  if  you  can  like  a modest  watercolour  better 
than  an  elaborate  engraving,  do.  There  may  indeed  be  en- 
gravings which  are  worth  the  suffering  it  costs  to  produce 
them  ; but  at  all  events,  engravings  of  public  dinners  and  lay- 
ing of  foundation  stones,  and  such  things,  might  be  dispensed 
with.  The  engraving  ought  to  be  a fii'st-rate  picture  of  a 
first-rate  subject  to  be  worth  buying.  Farther,  I know  that 
many  conscientious  persons  are  desirous  of  encouraging  art, 
but  feel  at  the  same  time  that  their  judgment  is  not  certain 
enough  to  secure  their  choice  of  the  best  kind  of  art.  To 
such  persons  I would  now  especially  address  myself,  fully  ad- 
mitting the  greatness  of  their  difS.culty.  It  is  not  an  easy 
thing  to  acquire  a knowledge  of  painting  ; and  it  is  by  no 
means  a desirable  thing  to  encourage  bad  painting.  One  bad 
painter  makes  another,  and  one  bad  painting  will  often  spoil 
a great  many  healthy  judgments.  I could  name  popular 
painters  now  living,  who  have  retarded  the  taste  of  their  gen- 
eration by  twenty  years.  Unless,  therefore,  we  are  certain 
not  merely  that  we  like  a painting,  but  that  we  are  right  in 
liking  it,  we  should  never  buy  it.  For  there  is  one  way  of 
spending  money  which  is  perfectly  safe,  and  in  which  we  may 
be  absolutely  sure  of  doing  good.  I mean,  by  paying  for  simple 
sculpture  of  natural  objects,  chiefly  flowers  and  animals.  You 
are  aware  that  the  possibilities  of  error  in  sculpture  are  much 
less  than  in  painting  ; it  is  altogether  an  easier  and  simpler 
art,  invariably  attaining  perfection  long  before  painting,  in 
the  progress  of  a national  mind.  It  may  indeed  be  corrupted 
by  false  taste,  or  thrown  into  erroneous  forms  ; but  for  the 
most  part,  the  feebleness  of  a sculptor  is  shown  in  imperfect 


2G2 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


tion  and  rudeness,  rather  than  in  definite  error.  He  does  not 
reach  the  fineness  of  the  forms  of  nature  ; l)ut  he  approaches 
tliem  truly  uj)  to  a certain  point,  or,  if  not  so,  at  all  events  an 
honest  effort  will  continually  improve  him  : so  that  if  we  set 
a simple  natural  form  before  him,  and  tell  him  to  copy  it,  we 
arc  sure  we  have  given  him  a wholesome  and  useful  piece  of 
education  ; but  if  we  told  him  to  paint  it,  he  might,  with  all 
the  honesty  in  the  world,  paint  it  wrongly  and  falsely,  to  the 
end  of  his  days. 

So  much  for  the  workman.  But  the  workman  is  not  the 
only  person  concerned.  Observe  farther,  that  when  you  buy 
a print,  the  enjoyment  of  it  is  confined  to  yourself  and  to 
your  friends.  But  if  you  carve  a piece  of  stone,  and  jmt  it 
on  the  outside  of  your  house,  it  will  give  pleasure  to  every 
person  who  passes  along  the  street — to  an  innumerable  mul- 
titude, instead  of  a few. 

Nay  but,  you  say,  we  ourselves  shall  not  be  benefited  by 
the  sculpture  on  the  outsides  of  our  houses.  Yes,  you  will, 
and  in  an  extraordinary  degree  ; for,  observe  farther,  that 
architecture  differs  from  j^ainting  j^eculiarly  in  being  an  art 
of  accumulation.  The  prints  bought  by  your  friends  and 
hung  up  in  their  houses,  have  no  collateral  effect  with  yours  : 
they  must  be  separately  examined,  and  if  ever  they  were 
hung  side  by  side,  they  would  rather  injure  than  assist  each 
other’s  effect.  But  the  sculpture  on  your  friend’s  house 
unites  in  effect  with  that  on  your  own.  The  two  houses  form 
one  grand  mass — far  grander  than  either  separately  ; much 
more  if  a third  be  added — and  a fourth  ; much  more  if  the 
whole  street — if  the  whole  city — join  in  the  solemn  harmony 
of  sculpture.  Your  separate  j^ossessions  of  pictures  and  prints 
are  to  you  as  if  you  sang  j^ieces  of  music  with  your  single 
voices  in  your  own  houses.  But  your  architectui’e  would  be 
as  if  you  all  sang  together  in  one  mighty  choir.  In  the  sep- 
arate picture,  it  is  rare  that  there  exists  any  very  high  source 
of  sublime  emotion  ; but  the  great  concerted  music  of  the 
streets  of  the  city  when  turret  rises  over  tuiTet,  and  casement 
frowns  beyond  casement,  and  tower  succeeds  to  tower  along 
the  fai’thest  ridges  of  the  inhabited  hills, — this  is  a sublimity 


AND  PAINTING. 


263 


of  which  you  can  at  present  form  no  conception ; and  capa- 
ble, I believe,  of  exciting  almost  the  deepest  emotion  that  art 
can  ever  strike  from  the  bosoms  of  men. 

And  justly  the  deepest : for  it  is  a law  of  God  and  of  nature, 
that  your  pleasures — as  your  virtues — shall  be  enhanced  by 
mutual  aid.  As,  by  joining  hand  in  hand,  you  can  sustain 
each  other  best,  so,  hand  in  hand,  you  can  delight  each  other 
best.  And  there  is  indeed  a charm  and  sacredness  in  street 
architecture  which  must  be  wanting  even  to  that  of  the  tem- 
ple : it  is  a little  thing  for  men  to  unite  in  the  forms  of  a 
religious  service,  but  it  is  much  for  them  to  unite,  like  true 
brethren,  in  the  arts  and  offices  of  their  daily  lives. 

And  now,  I can  conceive  only  of  one  objection  as  likely 
still  to  arise  in  your  minds,  which  I must  briefly  meet.  Your 
pictures,  and  other  smaller  works  of  art,  you  can  carry  with 
you,  wherever  you  live  ; your  house  must  be  left  behind. 
Indeed,  I believe  that  the  wandering  habits  which  have  now 
become  almost  necessary  to  our  existence,  lie  more  at  the 
root  of  our  bad  architecture  than  any  other  character  of  mod- 
ern times.  We  always  look  upon  our  houses  as  mere  tempo- 
rary lodgings.  We  are  always  hoping  to  get  larger  and  finer 
ones,  or  are  forced,  in  some  way  or  other,  to  live  where  we 
do  not  choose,  and  in  continual  expectation  of  changing  our 
place  of  abode.  In  the  present  state  of  society,  this  is  in  a 
great  measure  unavoidable  ; but  let  us  remember  it  is  an 
eml ; and  that  so  far  as  it  is  avoidable,  it  becomes  our  duty 
to  check  the  impulse.  It  is  not  for  me  to  lead  you  at  present 
into  any  consideration  of  a matter  so  closely  touching  your 
private  interests  and  feelings  ; but  it  surely  is  a subject  for 
serious  thought,  whether  it  might  not  be  better  for  many  of 
us,  if,  on  attaining  a certain  position  in  life,  we  determined, 
with  God’s  permission,  to  choose  a home  in  which  to  live  and 
die, — a home  not  to  be  increased  by  adding  stone  to  stone 
and  field  to  field,  but  which,  being  enough  for  all  our  wishes 
at  that  period,  we  should  resolve  to  be  satisfied  with  for 
ever.  Consider  this  ; and  also,  whether  we  ought  not  to  be 
more  in  the  habit  of  seeking  honour  from  our  descendants 
than  our  ancestors  ; thinking  it  better  to  be  nobly  remem^ 


2G4 


LECTURES  ON  ARGIIITECTURE 


bored  tlian  nobly  born  ; and  striving  so  to  live,  that  our  sonsi, 
and  our  sons’  sons,  for  ages  to  come,  might  still  lead  theii 
children  reverently  to  the  doors  out  of  which  we  had  been 
carried  to  the  grave,  saying,  “ Look  : This  was  his  house : 
This  was  his  chamber.” 

I believe  that  you  can  bring  forward  no  other  serious  ob- 
jection to  the  principles  for  which  I am  pleading.  They  are 
so  simple,  and,  it  seems  to  me,  so  incontrovertible,  that  I 
trust  you  will  not  leave  this  room  without  determining,  as 
3'ou  have  opportunity,  to  do  something  to  advance  this  long- 
neglected  art  of  domestic  architecture.  The  reasons  I have 
laid  before  you  would  have  weight,  even  were  I to  ask  you  to 
go  to  some  considerable  expenditure  beyond  what  you  at 
present  are  accustomed  to  devote  to  such  purposes  ; but 
nothing  more  would  be  needed  than  the  diversion  of  ex- 
penditures, at  present  scattered  and  unconsidered,  into  a sin- 
gle and  effective  channel.  Nay,  the  mere  interest  of  the 
money  which  we  are  accustomed  to  keep  dormant  by  us  in 
the  form  of  plate  and  jewellery,  would  alone  be  enough  to 
sustain  a school  of  magnificent  architecture.  And  although, 
in  highly  wrought  plate,  and  in  finely  designed  jewellery, 
noble  art  may  occasionally  exist,  yet  in  general  both  jewels 
and  services  of  silver  are  matters  of  ostentation,  much  more 
than  sources  of  intellectual  pleasure.  There  are  also  many 
evils  connected  with  them — they  are  a care  to  their  possessors, 
a temptation  to  the  dishonest,  and  a trouble  and  bitterness 
to  the  poor.  So  that  I cannot  but  think  that  part  of  the 
wealth  which  now  lies  buried  in  these  doubtful  luxuries, 
might  most  wisely  and  kindly  be  thrown  into  a form  which 
would  give  perpetual  pleasure,  not  to  its  possessor  only,  but 
to  thousands  besides,  and  neither  tempt  the  unprincipled,  nor 
inflame  the  envious,  nor  mortify  the  poor  ; while,  supposing 
that  your  own  dignity  was  dear  to  you,  this,  you  may  rely 
upon  it,  would  be  more  impressed  upon  others  by  the  noble* 
ness  of  your  house-walls  than  by  the  glistening  of  your  side- 
boards. 

And  even  supposing  that  some  additional  expenditure  xoere 
requii'ed  for  this  purpose,  are  we  indeed  so  much  poorer 


AND  PAINTING. 


205 


than  our  ancestors,  that  we  cannot  now,  in  all  the  power  of 
Britain,  afford  to  do  what  was  done  by  every  small  republic, 
by  every  independent  city,  in  the  middle  ages,  throughout 
France,  Italy,  and  Germany  ? I am  not  aware  of  a vestige  of 
domestic  architecture,  belonging  to  the  great  medieeval  pe- 
riods, which,  according  to  its  material  and  character,  is  not 
richly  decorated.  But  look  here  (fig.  19.),  look  to  what  an 
extent  decoration  has  been  carried  in  the  domestic  edifices  of 
a city,  I suppose  not  much  superior  in  importance,  commer- 
cially speaking,  to  Manchester,  Liverpool,  or  Birmingham — 
namely,  Rouen,  in  Normandy.  This  is  a garret  window,  still 
existing  there, — a garret  window  built  by  William  de  Bourg- 
theroude  in  the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth  century.  I show 
it  to  you,  first,  as  a proof  of  what  may  be  made  of  the  features 
of  domestic  buildings  we  are  apt  to  disdain  ; and  secondly,  as 
another  example  of  a beautiful  use  of  the  pointed  arch,  filled 
by  the  solid  shield  of  stone,  and  enclosing  a square  casement. 
It  is  indeed  a peculiarly  rich  and  beautiful  instance,  but  it 
is  a type  of  which  many  examples  still  exist  in  France,  and  of 
which  many  once  existed  in  your  own  Scotland,  of  rude  work 
indeed,  but  admirable  always  in  effect  upon  the  outline  of 
the  building.^ 

I do  not,  however,  hope  that  you  will  often  be  able  to  go  as 
far  as  this  in  decoration  ; in  fact  I w'ould  rather  recommend 
a simpler  style  to  you,  founded  on  earlier  examples,  but,  if 
possible,  aided  by  colour,  introduced  in  various  kinds  of  nat- 
urally coloured  stones.  I have  observed  that  yom’  Scottish 
lapidaries  have  admirable  taste  and  skill  in  the  disposition  of 
the  pebbles  of  your  brooches  and  other  ornaments  of  dress ; 
and  I have  not  the  least  doubt  that  the  genius  of  your  country 
would,  if  directed  to  this  particular  style  of  architecture,  pro- 
duce works  as  beautiful  as  they  would  be  thoroughly  national. 
The  Gothic  of  Florence,  which  owes  at  least  the  half  of  its 

* One  of  tlie  most  beautiful  instances  I know  of  this  kind  of  window 
is  in  the  ancient  house  of  the  Maxwells,  on  the  estate  of  Sir  John  Max- 
well of  Polloc.  I had  not  seen  it  when  I gave  this  lecture,  or  I should 
have  preferred  it,  as  an  example,  to  that  of  Rouen,  with  reference  to 
modern  possibilities  of  imitation. 


2GG 


LECTURES  ON  ARCTIITECTURE 


beauty  to  the  art  of  inlajdng,  would  furnish  you  with  exqui- 
site examples  ; its  sculpture  is  indeed  the  most  perfect  which 
was  ever  produced  by  the  Gothic  schools  ; but,  besides  this 
rich  sculpture,  all  its  flat  surfaces  are  inlaid  with  coloured 
stones,  much  being  done  with  a green  serpentine,  which 
forms  the  greater  part  of  the  coast  of  Genoa.  You  have,  I 
believe,  large  beds  of  this  rock  in  Scotland,  and  other  stones 
besides,  peculiarly  Scottish,  calculated  to  form  as  noble  a 
school  of  colour  as  ever  existed."^ 

And,  now,  I have  but  two  things  more  to  say  to  you  in 
conclusion. 

Most  of  the  lecturers  whom  you  allow  to  address  you,  lay 
before  you  views  of  the  sciences  they  profess,  which  are  either 
generally  received,  or  incontrovertible.  I come  before  you 
at  a disadvantage  ; for  I cannot  conscientiously  tell  you  any- 
thing about  architecture  but  what  is  at  variance  with  all  com- 
monly received  views  upon  the  subject.  I come  before  you, 
professedly  to  speak  of  things  forgotten  or  things  disputed  ; 
and  I lay  before  you,  not  accepted  principles,  but  questions 
at  issue.  Of  those  questions  you  are  to  be  the  judges,  and 
to  you  I appeal.  You  must  not,  wdien  you  leave  this  room, 
if  you  feel  doubtful  of  the  truth  of  what  I have  said,  refer 
yourselves  to  some  architect  of  established  reputation,  and 
ask  him  whether  I am  right  or  not.  You  might  as  well,  had 
you  lived  in  the  IGth  century,  have  asked  a Eoman  Catholic 
archbishop  his  ojDinion  of  the  first  reformer.  I deny  his  juris- 
diction ; I refuse  his  decision.  I call  uj)on  you  to  be  Bereans 
in  architecture,  as  you  are  in  religion,  and  to  search  into 
these  things  for  yoimselves.  Bemember  that,  however  candid 
a man  may  be,  it  is  too  much  to  expect  of  him,  when  his 
career  in  life  has  been  successful,  to  turn  suddenly  on  the 
highway,  and  to  declare  that  all  he  has  learned  has  been  false, 
and  all  he  has  done,  worthless  ; yet  nothing  less  than  such  a 
declaration  as  this  must  be  made  by  nearly  every  existing 

* A series  of  four  examples  of  designs  for  windows  was  exhibited  at 
this  point  of  the  lecture,  hut  I liave  not  engraved  them,  as  they  were 
hastily  made  for  the  purposes  of  momentary  illustration,  and  are  not 
such  as  I choose  to  publish  or  perpetuate. 


AND  PAINTING. 


267 


firchitect,  before  lie  admitted  the  truth  of  one  word  that  I 
have  said  to  you  this  evening.  You  must  be  prepared,  there- 
fore, to  hear  my  opinions  attacked  with  all  the  virulence  of 
established  interest,  and  all  the  pertinacity  of  confirmed 
prejudice  ; you  will  hear  them  made  the  subjects  of  every 
species  of  satire  and  invective  ; but  one  kind  of  opposition  to 
them  you  will  never  hear  ; you  will  never  hear  them  met  by 
quiet,  steady,  rational  argument ; for  that  is  the  one  way  in 
which  they  cannot  be  met.  You  will  constantly  hear  me 
accused — you  yourselves  may  be  the  first  to  accuse  me — of 
presumption  in  speaking  thus  confidently  against  the  estab- 
lished authority  of  ages.  Presumption  ! Yes,  if  I had  spoken 
on  my  own  authority  ; but  I have  appealed  to  two  incontro- 
vertible and  irrefragable  witnesses, — to  the  nature  that  is 
around  you — to  the  reason  that  is  within  you.  And  if  you 
are  willing  in  this  matter  to  take  the  voice  of  authority  against 
that  of  nature  and  of  reason,  take  it  in  other  things  also. 
Take  it  in  religion,  as  you  do  in  architecture.  It  is  not  by  a 
Scottish  audience, — not  by  the  descendants  of  the  Reformer 
and  the  Covenanter — that  I expected  to  be  met  with  a refusal 
to  believe  that  the  world  might  possibly  have  been  wrong  for 
three  hundred  years,  in  their  ways  of  carving  stones  and  set- 
ting up  of  pillars,  when  they  know  that  they  were  wrong  for 
twelve  hundred  years,  in  their  marking  how  the  roads  divided, 
that  led  to  Hell  and  Heaven. 

You  must  expect  at  first  that  there  will  be  difficulties  and 
inconsistencies  in  carrying  out  the  new  style  ; but  they  will 
soon  be  conquered  if  you  attempt  not  too  much  at  once.  Ho 
not  be  afraid  of  incongruities, — do  not  think  of  unities  of 
effect.  Introduce  your  Gothic  line  by  line  and  stone  by 
stone  ; never  mind  mixing  it  with  your  present  architecture  ; 
your  existing  houses  will  be  none  the  worse  for  having  little 
bits  of  better  work  fitted  to  them  ; build  a porch,  or  point  a 
window,  if  3^011  can  do  nothing  else  ; and  remember  that  it  is 
the  glory  of  Gothic  architecture  that  it  can  do  anything. 
Whatever  you  really  and  seriously  want.  Gothic  will  do  for 
you  ; but  it  must  be  an  earnest  want.  It  is  its  pride  to  ac- 
commodate itself  to  your  needs  ; and  the  one  general  law  im< 


208 


LECTURES  ON  ARGIIITECTURE 


(ler  which  it  acts  is  simply  this, — find  out  what  will  make 
you  comfortable,  build  that  in  the  strongest  and  boldest  way, 
and  then  set  your  fancy  free  in  the  decoration  of  it.  Don’t 
do  anything  to  imitate  this  cathedral  or  that,  however  beau- 
tiful. Do  what  is  convenient ; and  if  the  form  be  a new  one, 
so  much  the  better ; then  set  your  mason’s  wits  to  work,  to 
find  out  some  new  way  of  treating  it.  Only  be  steadily  de- 
termined that,  even  if  you  cannot  get  the  best  Gothic,  at  least 
you  will  have  no  Greek  ; and  in  a few  years’  time, — in  less 
time  than  you  could  learn  a new  science  or  a new  language 
thoroughly, — the  whole  art  of  your  native  country  will  be 
reanimated. 

And,  now,  lastly.  When  this  shall  be  accomplished,  do 
not  think  it  will  make  little  difference  to  you,  and  that  you 
will  be  little  the  happier,  or  little  the  better  for  it.  You  have 
at  present  no  conception,  and  can  have  none,  how  much  you 
would  enjoy  a truly  beautiful  architecture  ; but  I can  give 
you  a proof  of  it  which  none  of  you  will  be  able  to  deny. 
You  will  all  assuredly  admit  this  principle — that  whatever 
temporal  things  are  sj^oken  of  in  the  Bible  as  emblems  of  the 
highest  spiritual  blessings,  must  be  good  things  in  themselves. 
You  would  allow  that  bread,  for  instance,  would  not  have  been 
used  as  an  emblem  of  the  word  of  life,  unless  it  had  been  good, 
and  necessary  for  man ; nor  water  used  as  the  emblem  of  sanc- 
tification, unless  it  also  had  been  good  and  necessary  for  man. 
You  will  allow  that  oil,  and  honey,  and  balm  are  good,  when 
David  says,  “Let  the  righteous  reprove  me;  it  shall  bean 
excellent  oil ; ” or,  “ How  sweet  are  thy  words  unto  my 
taste  ; yea,  sweeter  than  honey  to  my  mouth ; ” or,  when 
Jeremiah  cries  out  in  his  weeping,  “Is  there  no  balm  in 
Gilead  ? is  there  no  physician  there  ? ” You  would  admit  at 
once  that  the  man  who  said  there  was  no  taste  in  the  literal 
honey,  and  no  healing  in  the  literal  balm,  must  be  of  dis- 
torted judgment,  since  God  has  used  them  as  emblems  of 
spiritual  sweetness  and  healing.*  And  how,  then,  will  you 
evade  the  conclusion,  that  there  must  be  joy,  and  comfort, 
and  instruction  in  the  literal  beauty  of  architecture,  when 
God,  descending  in  his  utmost  love  to  the  distressed  Jerusa" 


AND  PAINTING. 


269 


lem,  and  addressing  to  her  his  most  precious  and  solemn  prom- 
ises, speaks  to  her  in  such  words  as  these:  “Oh,  thou  af- 
flicted, tossed  with  tempest,  and  not  comforted,” — What  shall 
be  done  to  her  ? — What  brightest  emblem  of  blessing  will 
God  set  before  her  ? “Behold,  I will  lay  thy  stones  with  fair 
colours,  and  thy  foundations  with  sapphires  ; and  I will  make 
thy  ivindows  of  agates,  and  thy  gates  of  carbuncles,  and  all 
thy  borders  of  pleasant  stones.”  Nor  is  this  merely  an  em- 
blem of  spiritual  blessing  ; for  that  blessing  is  added  in  the 
concluding  words,  “ And  all  thy  children  shall  be  taught  of 
the  Lord,  and  great  shall  be  the  peace  of  thy  children.” 


270 


legtuhes  on  aiwuitecture 


ADDENDA 

TO 

LECTURES  I.  AND  11. 


The  delivery  of  the  foregoing  lectures  excited,  as  it  may  be 
imagined,  considerable  indignation  among  the  architects  who 
happened  to  hear  them,  and  elicited  various  attempts  at  reply. 
As  it  seemed  to  have  been  expected  by  the  writers  of  these 
replies,  that  in  two  lectures,  each  of  them  lasting  not  much 
more  than  an  hour,  I should  have  been  able  completely  to 
discuss  the  philosophy  and  history  of  the  architecture  of  the 
world,  besides  meeting  every  objection,  and  reconciling  every 
apparent  contradiction,  which  might  suggest  itself  to  the 
minds  of  hearers  with  whom,  probably,  from  first  to  last,  I 
had  not  a single  exactly  correspondent  idea,  relating  to  the 
matters  under  discussion,  it  seems  unnecessary  to  notice  any 
of  them  in  particular.  But  as  this  volume  may  perhaps  fall 
into  the  hands  of  readers  who  have  not  time  to  refer  to  the 
works  in  which  my  views  have  been  expressed  more  at  large, 
and  as  I shall  now  not  be  able  to  write  or  to  say  anything 
more  about  architecture  for  some  time  to  come,  it  may  be 
useful  to  state  here,  and  explain  in  the  shortest  possible  com- 
pass, the  main  gist  of  the  propositions  which  I desire  to  main- 
tain respecting  that  art ; and  also  to  note  and  answer,  once 
for  all,  such  arguments  as  are  ordinarily  used  by  the  archi- 
tects of  the  modern  school  to  controvert  these  propositions. 
They  may  be  reduced  under  six  heads. 

1.  That  Gothic  or  Romanesque  construction  is  nobler  than 
Greek  construction. 

2.  That  ornamentation  is  the  principal  part  of  architecture. 


AND  PAINTING. 


271 


3.  That  ornamentation  should  he  visible. 

4.  That  ornamentation  should  be  natural. 

5.  That  ornamentation  should  be  thoughtful. 

6.  And  that  therefore  Gothic  ornamentation  is  nobler  than 
Greek  ornamentation,  and  Gothic  architecture  the  only  arclii 
tecture  which  should  now  be  built. 

Proposition  1st. — Gothic  or  Romanesque  construction  is  nobler 
than  Greek  construction.^  That  is  to  say,  building  an  arch, 
vault,  or  dome,  is  a nobler  and  more  ingenious  work  than  lay^ 
ing  a flat  stone  or  beam  over  the  space  to  be  covered.  It  is, 
for  instance,  a nobler  and  more  ingenious  thing  to  build  an 
arched  bridge  over  a stream,  than  to  lay  two  pine-trunks  across 
from  bank  to  bank ; and,  in  like  manner,  it  is  a nobler  and 
more  ingenious  thing  to  build  an  arch  over  a window,  door, 
or  room,  than  to  lay  a single  flat  stone  over  the  same  space. 

No  architects  have  ever  attempted  seriously  to  controvert 
this  proposition.  Sometimes,  however,  they  say  that  “ of  two 
ways  of  doing  a thing,  the  best  and  most  perfect  is  not  always 
to  be  adopted,  for  there  may  be  particular  reasons  for  em- 
ploying an  inferior  one.”  This  I am  perfectly  ready  to  grant, 
only  let  them  show  their  reasons  in  each  particular  case. 
Sometimes  also  they  say,  that  there  is  a charm  in  the  simple 
construction  which  is  lost  in  the  scientific  one.  This  I am 
also  perfectly  ready  to  grant.  There  is  a charm  in  Stonehenge 
which  there  is  not  in  Amiens  Cathedral,  and  a charm  in  an 
Alpine  pine  bridge  which  there  is  not  in  the  Ponte  della  Trin- 

* The  constructive  value  of  Gothic  architecture  is,  however,  far 
greater  than  that  of  Romanesque,  as  the  pointed  arch  is  not  only  sus- 
ceptible of  an  infinite  variety  of  forms  and  applications  to  the  weight  to 
be  sustained,  but  it  possesses,  in  the  outline  given  to  its  masonry  at  its 
perfect  periods,  the  means  of  self-sustainment  to  a far  greater  degree 
than  the  round  arch.  I pointed  out,  I believe,  the  first  time,  the  mean- 
ing and  constructive  value  of  the  Gothic  cusp,  in  page  129  of  the  first 
volume  of  the  ‘"Stones  of  Venice.”  That  statement  was  first  denied, 
and  then  taken  advantage  of,  by  modern  architects  ; and,  considering 
how  often  it  has  been  alleged  that  I have  no  practical  knowledge  of 
architecture,  it  cannot  but  be  matter  of  some  triumph  to  me,  to  find  the 
“ Builder,”  of  the  21st  January,  of  this  year,  describing,  as  a new  in- 
vention, the  successful  application  to  a church  in  Carlow  of  the  princh 
pie  which  I laid  down  in  the  year  1851. 


272 


LECTURES  ON  ARGIUTECTURE 


ita  afc  Florence,  and,  in  general,  a cliarm  in  savageness  which 
there  is  not  in  science.  Hut  do  not  let  it  be  said,  therefore, 
that  savageness  w science. 

Proposition  2nd. — Ornamenlation  is  the  principal  part  of 
arcJiitectui'e.  That  is  to  say,  the  highest  nol)ility  of  a build- 
ing does  not  consist  in  its  being  well  built,  but  in  its  being 
nobly  sculptured  or  painted. 

This  is  alwa^'S,  and  at  the  first  hearing  of  it,  very  naturally, 
considered  one  of  my  most  heretical  propositions.  It  is  also 
one  of  the  most  important  I have  to  maintain  ; and  it  must  be 
permitted  me  to  explain  it  at  some  length.  The  first  thing  to 
be  required  of  a building — not,  observe,  the  highest  thing,  but 
the  first  thing — is  that  it  shall  answer  its  purposes  completely, 
permanently,  and  at  the  smallest  expense.  If  it  is  a house,  it 
should  be  just  of  the  size  convenient  for  its  owner,  containing 
exactly  the  kind  and  number  of  rooms  that  he  wants,  with  ex- 
actly the  number  of  windows  he  wants,  put  in  the  places  that 
he  wants.  If  it  is  a church,  it  should  be  just  large  enough 
for  its  congregation,  and  of  such  shape  and  disposition  as 
shall  make  them  comfortable  in  it  and  let  them  hear  well  in 
it.  If  it  be  a x^ublic  office,  it  should  be  so  disposed  as  is  most 
convenient  for  the  clerks  in  their  daily  avocations  ; and  so  on  ; 
all  this  being  utterly  irrespective  of  external  appearance  or 
msthetic  considerations  of  any  kind,  and  all  being  done  solidly, 
securely,  and  at  the  smallest  necessary  cost. 

The  sacrifice  of  any  of  these  first  requirements  to  external 
appearance  is  a futility  and  absurdity.  Rooms  must  not  be 
darkened  to  make  the  ranges  of  windows  symmetrical.  Useless 
wings  must  not  be  added  on  one  side  to  balance  useful  wings 
on  the  other,  but  the  house  built  with  one  wing,  if  the  owner 
has  no  need  of  two  ; and  so  on. 

But  observe,  in  doing  all  this,  there  is  no  High,  or  as  it  is 
commonly  called.  Fine  Art,  required  at  all.  There  may  be 
much  science,  together  with  the  lower  form  of  art,  or  “handi- 
craft,” but  there  is  as  yet  no  Fine  Art.  House-building,  on 
these  terms,  is  no  higher  thing  than  ship-building.  It  indeed 
will  generally  be  found  that  the  edifice  designed  with  this 
masculine  reference  to  utility,  will  have  a charm  about  ib 


AND  PAINTING. 


273 


otherwise  unattainable,  just  as  a ship,  constructed  with  simple 
reference  to  its  service  against  powers  of  wind  and  wave,  turns 
but  one  of  the  loveliest  things  that  human  hands  produce. 
Still,  we  do  not,  and  properly  do  not,  hold  ship-building  to  be 
a fine  art,  nor  preserve  in  our  memories  the  names  of  immor-» 
sal  ship-builders  ; neither,  so  long  as  the  mere  utility  and  con- 
structive merit  of  the  building  are  regarded,  is  architecture  to 
be  held  a fine  art,  or  are  the  names  of  architects  to  be  remem- 
bered immortally.  For  any  one  may  at  any  time  be  taught  to 
build  the  ship,  or  (thus  far)  the  house,  and  there  is  nothing 
deserving  of  immortality  in  doing  what  any  one  may  be  taught 
to  do. 

But  when  the  house,  or  church,  or  other  building  is  thus 
far  designed,  and  the  forms  of  its  dead  walls  and  dead  roofs 
are  up  to  this  point  determined,  comes  the  divine  part  of  the 
work — namely,  to  turn  these  dead  walls  into  living  ones. 
Only  Deity,  tliat  is  to  say,  those  who  are  taught  by  Deity,  can 
do  that. 

And  that  is  to  be  done  by  painting  and  sculpture,  that  is 
to  say,  by  ornamentation.  Ornamentation  is  therefore  the 
principal  part  of  architecture,  considered  as  a subject  of  fine 
art. 

Now  observe.  It  will  at  once  follow  from  this  principle, 
that  a great  architect  must  be  a great  sculptor  or  painter. 

This  is  a universal  law.  No  person  who  is  not  a great 
sculptor  or  painter  can  be  an  architect.  If  he  is  not  a sculptor 
or  painter,  he  can  only  be  a builder. 

The  three  greatest  architects  hitherto  known  in  th^  world 
were  Phidias,  Giotto,  and  Michael  Angelo  ; with  all  of  whom, 
arehitecture  was  only  their  play,  sculpture  and  painting  their 
work.  All  great  works  of  architecture  in  existence  are  either 
the  work  of  single  sculptors  or  painters,  or  of  societies  of 
sculptors  and  painters,  acting  collectively  for  a series  of  years. 
A Gothic  cathedral  is  properly  to  be  defined  as  a piece  of  the 
most  magnificent  associative  sculpture,  arranged  on  the  no- 
blest principles  of  building,  for  the  service  and  delight  of 
multitudes ; and  the  proper  definition  of  architecture,  as 
distinguished  from  sculpture,  is  merely  “ the  art  of  design^ 


274 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


ing  sculpture  for  a particular  place,  and  placing  it  there  on 
the  best  principles  of  building.” 

Hence  it  clearly  follows,  that  in  modern  days  we  have  no 
architects.  The  term  “architecture”  is  not  so  much  as  un- 
derstood by  us.  I am  very  sorry  to  be  compelled  to  the  dis- 
courtesy of  stating  this  fact,  but  a fact  it  is,  and  a fact  which 
it  is  necessary  to  state  strongly. 

Hence  also  it  will  follow,  that  the  first  thing  necessary  to 
the  possession  of  a school  of  architecture  is  the  formation  of 
a school  of  able  sculptors,  and  that  till  we  have  that,  nothing 
we  do  can  be  called  architecture  at  all. 

This,  then,  being  my  second  proposition,  the  so-called 
“architects”  of  the  day,  as  the  reader  will  imagine,  are  not 
willing  to  admit  it,  or  to  admit  any  statement  which  at  all 
involves  it  ; and  every  statement,  tending  in  this  direction, 
which  I have  hitherto  made,  has  of  course  been  met  by  eager 
opposition  ; opposition  which  perhaps  would  have  been  still 
more  energetic,  but  that  architects  have  not,  I think,  till 
lately,  been  quite  aware  of  the  lengths  to  which  I was  pre- 
pared to  carry  the  principle. 

The  arguments,  or  assertions,  which  they  generally  employ 
against  this  second  pro^^osition  and  its  consequences,  are  the 
following. 

First.  That  the  true  nobility  of  architecture  consists,  not  in 
decoration  (or  sculpture),  but  in  the  “ disposition  of  masses,” 
and  that  architecture  is,  in  fact,  the  “ art  of  proportion.” 

It  is  difficult  to  overstate  the  enormity  of  the  ignorance 
which  this  popular  statement  implies.  For  the  fact  is  that 
all  art,  and  all  nature,  depend  on  the  “ disposition  of  masses.” 
Painting,  sculpture,  music,  and  poetry,  depend  all  equally  on 
the  “proportion,” whether  of  colours,  stones,  notes,  or  words. 
Proportion  is  a principle,  not  of  architecture,  but  of  existence. 
It  is  by  the  laws  of  proportion  that  stars  shine,  that  moun- 
tains stand,  and  rivers  flow.  Man  can  hardly  perform  any  act 
of  his  life,  can  hardly  utter  two  words  of  innocent  speech,  or 
move  his  hand  in  accordance  with  those  words,  without  in- 
volving some  reference,  whether  taught  or  instinctive,  to  the 
laws  of  proportion.  And  in  the  fine  arts,  it  is  impossible  to 


AND  PAINTINO. 


275 


move  a single  step,  or  to  execute  the  smallest  and  simplest 
piece  of  work,  without  involving  all  those  laws  of  proportion 
in  their  full  complexity.  To  arrange  (by  invention)  the  folds 
of  a piece  of  drapery,  or  dispose  the  locks  of  hair  on  the  head 
of  a statue,  requires  as  much  sense  and  knowledge  of  the  laws 
of  proportion,  as  to  dispose  the  masses  of  a cathedral.  The  one 
are  indeed  smaller  than  the  other,  but  the  relations  between 
1,  2,  4,  and  8,  are  precisely  the  same  as  the  relations  betw'een 
6,  12,  24,  and  48.  So  that  the  assertion  that  ‘‘  architecture 
is  par  excellence  the  art  of  proportion,”  could  never  be  made 
except  by  persons  who  know  nothing  of  art  in  general ; and, 
in  fact,  never  is  made  except  by  those  architects,  who,  not 
being  artists,  fancy  that  the  one  poor  sesthetic  principle  of 
which  they  are  cognizant  is  the  whole  of  art.  They  find  that 
the  “ disposition  of  masses  ” is  the  only  thing  of  importance 
in  the  art  with  which  they  are  acquainted,  and  fancy  therefore 
that  it  is  peculiar  to  that  art ; whereas  the  fact  is,  that  all 
great  art  begins  exactly  where  theirs  ends,  with  the  “ disposi- 
tion of  masses.”  The  assertion  that  Greek  architecture,  as 
opposed  to  Gothic  architecture,  is  the  “ architecture  of  pro- 
portion,” is  another  of  the  results  of  the  same  broad  igno- 
rance. First,  it  is  a calumny  of  the  old  Greek  style  itself, 
which,  like  every  other  good  architecture  that  ever  existed, 
depends  more  on  its  grand  figure  sculpture,  than  on  its  pro- 
portions of  parts  ; so  that  to  copy  the  form  of  the  Parthenon 
without  its  friezes  and  frontal  statuary,  is  like  copying  the 
figure  of  a human  being  without  its  eyes  and  mouth  ; and,  in 
the  second  place,  so  far  as  modern  pseudo-Greek  work  does 
depend  on  its  proportions  more  than  Gothic  work,  it  does  so, 
not  because  it  is  better  proportioned,  but  because  it  has  notln 
ing  but  proportion  to  depend  upon.  Gesture  is  in  like  man- 
ner of  more  importance  to  a pantomime  actor  than  to  a trage- 
dian,- not  because  his  gesture  is  more  refined,  but  because  he 
has  no  tongue.  And  the  proportions  of  our  common  Greek 
work  are  important  to  it  undoubtedly,  but  not  because  they 
are  or  ever  can  be  more  subtle  than  Gothic  proportion,  but 
because  that  work  has  no  sculpture,  nor  colour,  nor  imagina- 
tion, nor  sacredness,  nor  any  other  quality  whatsoever  in  it, 


270 


LECTURES  ON  ARCIIirECTURE 


but  mtios  of  measures.  And  it  is  difficult  to  express  with 
sufficient  force  the  absurdity  of  the  supposition  that  there  is 
more  room  for  refinements  of  proportion  in  the  relations  of 
seven  or  eight  equal  pillars,  with  the  triangular  end  of  a roof 
above  them,  than  between  the  shafts,  and  buttresses,  and 
porches,  and  pinnacles,  and  vaultings,  and  towers,  and  all 
other  vloubly  and  trebly  multiplied  magnificences  of  member- 
ship which  form  the  framework  of  a Gothic  temple. 

Second  Reply. — It  is  often  said,  with  some  appearance  of 
plausibility,  tliat  I dwell  in  all  my  writings  on  little  things 
and  contemptible  details  ; and  not  on  essential  and  large 
things.  Now,  in  the  first  place,  as  soon  as  our  architects  be- 
come capable  of  doing  and  managing  little  and  contemptible 
things,  it  will  be  time  to  talk  about  larger  ones  ; at  present  I 
do  not  see  that  they  can  design  so  much  as  a niche  or  a 
bracket,  and  therefore  they  need  not  as  yet  think  about  any- 
thing larger.  For  although,  as  both  just  now,  and  always,  I 
have  said,  there  is  as  much  science  of  arrangement  needed  in 
the  designing  of  a small  group  of  j)arts  as  of  a large  one,  yet 
assuredly  designing  the  larger  one  is  not  the  easier  work  of 
the  two.  For  the  eye  and  mind  can  embrace  the  smaller  ob- 
ject more  completely,  and  if  the  powers  of  concejAion  are 
feeble,  they  get  embarrassed  by  the  inferior  members  which 
fall  ivithin  the  divisions  of  the  larger  design. So  that,  of 
course,  the  best  way  is  to  begin  with  the  smaller  features  ; 
for  most  assuredly,  those  who  cannot  design  small  things 
cannot  design  large  ones  ; and  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  who- 
ever can  design  small  things  pei'fecthj,  can  design  whatever 
he  chooses.  The  man  who,  without  co]3ying,  and  by  his  own 
true  and  original  power,  can  arrange  a cluster  of  rose-leaves 
nobly,  can  design  anything.  He  may  fail  from  want  of  taste 
or  feeling,  but  not  from  want  of  power. 

* Tims,  in  speaking  of  Pugin’s  designs,  I said,  “Expect  no  cathedrals 
of  him  ; but  no  one,  at  present,  can  design  a better  finial,  though  he 
will  never  design  even  a finial,  perfectly.”  But  even  this  I said  less 
with  reference  to  powers  of  arrangement,  than  to  materials  of  fancy  ; 
for  many  men  have  stone  enough  to  last  them  through  a boss  or 
bracket,  but  not  to  last  them  through  a church  front. 


AND  FAINTING. 


277 


Aud  tlie  real  reason  why  architects  are  so  eager  in  protest- 
ing against  my  close  examination  of  details,  is  simply  that 
they  know  they  dare  not  meet  me  on  that  ground.  Being,  as 
I have  said,  in  reality  not  architects,  but  builders,  they  can 
indeed  raise  a large  building,  with  copied  ornaments,  which, 
being  huge  and  white,  they  hope  the  public  may  pronounce 
handsome.”  But  they  cannot  design  a cluster  of  oak-leaves 
= — no,  nor  a single  human  figure — no,  nor  so  much  as  a beast, 
or  a bird  or  a bird’s  nest ! Let  them  first  learn  to  invent  as 
much  as  will  fill  a quatrefoil,  or  point  a pinnacle,  and  then  it 
will  be  time  enough  to  reason  with  them  on  the  principles  of 
the  sublime. 

But  farther.  The  things  that  I have  dwelt  u]3on  in  exam- 
ining buildings,  though  often  their  least  parts,  are  always  in 
reality  their  principal  parts.  That  is  the  principal  part  of  a 
building  in  which  its  mind  is  contained,  and  that,  as  I have 
just  shown,  is  its  sculpture  and  painting.  I do  with  a build- 
ing as  I do  with  a man,  watch  the  eye  and  the  lips  : when  they 
are  bright  and  eloquent,  the  form  of  the  body  is  of  little  con- 
sequence. 

Whatever  other  objections  have  been  made  to  this  second 
proposition,  arise,  as  far  as  I remember,  merely  from  a con- 
fusion of  the  idea  of  essentialness  or  primariness  with  the 
idea  of  nobleness.  The  essential  thing  in  a building, — its 
first  virtue, — is  that  it  be  strongly  built,  and  fit  for  its  uses. 
The  noblest  thing  in  a building,  and  its  highest  virtue,  is  that 
it  be  nobly  sculptured  or  painted.* 

One  or  two  important  corollaries  yet  remain  to  be  stated. 
It  has  just  been  said  that  to  sacrifice  the  convenience  of  a 
building  to  its  external  app'earance  is  a futility  and  absurdity^, 
and  that  convenience  and  stability  are  to  be  attained  at  the 
smallest  cost.  But  when  that  convenience  has  been  attained, 
the  adding  the  noble  characters  of  life  by  painting  and 
sculpture,  is  a work  in  which  all  possible  cost  may  be  wisely 
admitted.  There  is  great  difficulty  in  fully  explaining  the 
various  bearings  of  this  proposition,  so  as  to  do  away  with  the 

* Of  course  I use  tlie  term  painting  as  including  every  mode  of  ap' 
plying  colour. 


278 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


chances  of  its  being  erroneously  understood  and  applied. 
For  although,  in  the  first  designing  of  the  building,  nothing 
is  to  be  admitted  but  what  is  wanted,  and  no  useless  wings 
are  to  be  added  to  balance  useful  ones,  yet  in  its  ultimate 
designing,  when  its  sculpture  and  colour  become  precious,  it 
may  be  that  actual  room  is  wanted  to  display  them,  or  richer 
sj'mmetry  wanted  to  deserve  them  ; and  in  such  cases  even  a 
useless  wall  may  be  built  to  bear  the  sculpture,  as  at  San 
Michele  of  Lucca,  or  a useless  portion  added  to  complete  the 
cadences,  as  at  St.  Mark’s  of  Venice,  or  useless  height  ad- 
mitted in  order  to  increase  the  impressiveness,  as  in  nearly 
every  noble  building  in  the  world.  But  the  right  to  do  this 
is  dependent  upon  the  actual  imrpose  of  the  building  becom- 
ing no  longer  one  of  utility  merely  ; as  the  purpose  of  a 
cathedral  is  not  so  much  to  shelter  the  congregation  as  to  awe 
them.  In  such  cases  even  some  sacrifice  of  convenience  may 
occasionally  be  admitted,  as  in  the  case  of  certain  forms  of 
i)illared  churches.  But  for  the  most  part,  the  great  law  is, 
convenience  first,  and  then  the  noblest  decoration  j^ossible  ; 
and  this  is  peculiarly  the  case  in  domestic  buildings,  and 
such  i^ublic  ones  as  are  constantly  to  be  used  for  iDractical 
purposes. 

Proposition  3rd. — O^mamentation  should  he  visible. 

The  reader  may  imagine  this  to  be  an  indisputable  posi- 
tion ; but,  practically,  it  is  one  of  the  last  which  modern 
architects  are  likely  to  admit  ; for  it  involves  much  more 
than  appears  at  first  sight.  To  render  ornamentation,  with 
all  its  qualities,  clearly  and  entirely  visible  in  its  appointed 
place  on  the  building,  requires  a knowledge  of  effect  and  a 
power  of  design  which  few  even  of  the  best  artists  possess, 
and  which  modern  architects,  so  far  from  possessing,  do  not 
so  much  as  comprehend  the  existence  of.  But,  without 
dwelling  on  this  highest  manner  of  rendering  ornament 
“ visible,”  I desire  only  at  present  to  convince  the  reader 
thoroughly  of  the  main  fact  asserted  in  the  text,  that  while 
modern  builders  decorate  the  tops  of  buildings,  mediaeval 
builders  decorated  the  bottom.  So  siugular  is  the  ignorance 
yet  prevailing  of  the  first  principles  of  Gothic  architecture^ 


AND  PAINTING. 


270 


that  I saw  this  assertion  marked  with  notes  of  interrogation 
in  several  of  the  reports  of  these  Lectures ; although,  at 
Edinburgh,  it  was  only  necessary  for  those  who  doubted  it  to 
have  walked  to  Holyrood  Chapel,  in  order  to  convince  them- 
selves of  the  truth  of  it,  so  far  as  their  own  city  was  con- 
cerned ; and  although,  most  assuredly,  the  cathedrals  of 
Europe  have  now  been  drawn  often  enough  to  establish  the 
very  simple  fact  that  their  best  sculpture  is  in  their  porches, 
not  in  their  steeples.  However,  as  this  great  Gothic  principle 
seems  yet  unacknowledged,  let  me  state  it  here,  once  for  all, 
namely,  that  the  whole  building  is  decorated,  in  all  pure  and 
fine  examples,  with  the  most  exactly  studied  respect  to  the 
powers  of  the  eye  ; the  richest  and  most  delicate  sculpture 
being  put  on  the  walls  of  the  porches,  or  on  the  fa9ade  of  the 
building,  just  high  enough  above  the  ground  to  secure  it 
from  accidental,  (not  from  wanton^)  injury.  The  decoration, 
as  it  rises,  becomes  always  bolder,  and  in  the  buildings  of  the 
greatest  times  ge7ierally  simpler.  Thus  at  San  Zeno,  and  the 
duomo  of  Verona,  the  only  delicate  decorations  are  on  the 
porches  and  lower  walls  of  the  fa9ades,  the  rest  of  the  build- 
ings being  lefji  comparatively  plain ; in  the  ducal  palace  of 
Venice  the  only  very  careful  work  is  in  the  lowest  capitals ; 
and  so  also  the  richness  of  the  work  diminishes  upwards  in 
the  transepts  of  Rouen,  and  fa9ades  of  Bayeux,  Eheims, 
Amiens,  Abbeville,f  Lyons,  and  Notre  Dame  of  Paris.  But 
in  the  middle  and  later  Gothic  the  tendency  is  to  produce  an 
equal  richness  of  effect  over  the  whole  building,  or  even  to  in- 
crease the  richness  towards  the  top  : but  this  is  done  so  skil- 
fully that  no  fine  work  is  wasted  : and  when  the  spectator 
ascends  to  the  higher  points  of  the  building,  which  he  thought 
were  of  the  most  consummate  delicacy,  he  finds  them  Herculean 

* Nothing  is  more  notable  in  good  Gothic  than  the  confidence  of  its 
builders  in  the  respect  of  the  people  for  their  work.  A great  school  of 
architecture  cannot  exist  when  this  respect  cannot  be  calculated  upon, 
as  it  would  be  vain  to  put  fine  sculpture  within  the  reach  of  a popula- 
tion whose  only  pleasure  would  be  in  defacing  it, 

f The  church  at  Abbeville  is  late  flamboyant,  but  well  deserves,  for 
the  exquisite  beauty  of  its  porches,  to  be  named  even  with  the  great 
works  of  the  thirteenth  century. 


280 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


ill  strength  and  rough-hewn  in  style,  the  really  delicate  work 
being  all  i:>ut  at  the  base.  The  general  treatment  of  Eoman- 
esque  work  is  to  increase  the  number  of  arches  at  the  top, 
which  at  once  enriches  and  lightens  the  mass,  and  to  j^ut  the 
finest  sculpture  of  the  arches  at  the  bottom.  Li  towers  of 
all  kinds  and  periods  the  effective  enrichment  is  towards  the 
top,  and  most  rightly,  since  their  dignity  is  in  their  height ; 
but  they  are  never  made  the  recipients  of  fine  sculpture,  with, 
as  far  as  I know,  the  single  exception  of  Giotto’s  campanile, 
which  indeed  has  fine  sculpture,  hut  it  is  at  the  bottom. 

The  fa9ade  of  Wells  Cathedral  seems  to  be  an  exception  to 
the  general  rule,  in  having  its  principal  decoration  at  the  top ; 
but  it  is  on  a scale  of  perfect  power  and  effectiveness  ; while 
in  the  base  modern  Gothic  of  Milan  Cathedral  the  statues  are 
cut  dehcately  everywhere,  and  the  builders  think  it  a merit 
that  the  visitor  must  chmb  to  the  roof  before  he  can  see  them  ; 
and  our  modern  Greek  and  Italian  architecture  reaches  the 
utmost  pitch  of  absurdity  by  placing  its  fine  work  at  the  top 
only.  So  that  the  general  condition  of  the  thing  may  be 
stated  boldly,  as  in  the  text : the  principal  ornaments  of 
Gothic  buildings  being  in  their  qiorches,  and  of  modern  build- 
ings, in  their  parapets. 

Proposition  4th. — Ornamentation  should  be  natural, — that  is 
to  say,  should  in  some  degree  express  or  adopt  the  beauty  of 
natural  objects.  This  law,  together  with  its  ultimate  reason, 
is  expressed  in  the  statement  given  in  the  Stones  of  Venice,” 
vol.  i.  p.  213.  : “ All  noble  ornament  is  the  expression  of 
man’s  delight  in  God’s  work.” 

Observe,  it  does  not  hence  follow  that  it  should  be  an  exact 
imitation  of,  or  endeavour  in  anywise  to  supersede,  God’s  work. 
It  may  consist  only  in  a partial  adoption  of,  and  compliance 
with,  the  usual  forms  of  natural  things,  without  at  aU  going 
to  the  point  of  imitation  ; and  it  is  possible  that  the  point  of 
imitation  may  be  closety  reached  by  ornaments,  v/hich  never- 
theless are  entirely  unfit  for  their  place,  and  are  the  signs  only 
of  a degraded  ambition  and  an  ignorant  dexterity.  Bad  dec* 
orators  err  as  easily  on  the  side  of  imitating  nature,  as  of  for- 
getting her  ; and  the  question  of  the  exact  degree  in  which 


AND  PAINTING. 


281 


imitation  should  be  attempted  under  given  circumstances,  is 
one  of  the  most  subtle  and  difficult  in  the  whole  range  of 
criticism.  I have  elsewhere  examined  it  at  some  length,  and 
have  yet  much  to  say  about  it ; but  here  I can  only  state 
briefly  that  the  modes  in  which  ornamentation  ought  to  fall 
short  of  pure  representation  or  imitation  are  in  the  main  three, 
namely, — 

A.  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  colour. 

B.  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  inferiority. 

C.  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  means. 

A.  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  colour. — Abstract  colour 
IS  not  an  imitation  of  nature,  but  is  nature  itself  ; that  is  to 
say,  the  pleasure  taken  in  blue  or  red,  as  such,  considered 
as  hues  merely,  is  the  same,  so  long  as  the  brilliancy  of  the 
hue  is  equal,  whether  it  be  produced  by  the  chemistry  of 
man,  or  the  chemistry  of  flowers,  or  the  chemistry  of  skies. 
We  deal  with  colour  as  with  sound — so  far  ruling  the  power 
of  the  light,  as  we  rule  the  power  of  the  air,  producing  beauty 
not  necessarily  imitative,  but  sufficient  in  itself,  so  that, 
wherever  colour  is  introduced,  ornamentation  may  cease  to 
represent  natural  objects,  and  may  consist  in  mere  spots,  or 
bands,  or  flamings,  or  any  other  condition  of  arrangement 
favourable  to  the  colour. 

B.  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  inferiority. — In  general, 

ornamentation  is  set  upon  certain  services,  subjected  to  cer- 
tain systems,  and  confined  within  certain  limits  ; so  that  its 
forms  require  to  be  lowered  or  limited  in  accordance  with  the 
required  relations.  It  cannot  be  allowed  to  assume  the  free 
outlines,  or  to  rise  to  the  perfection  of  imitation.  Whole 
banks  of  flowers,  for  instance,  cannot  be  carved  on  cathedral 
fronts,  but  only  narrow  mouldings,  having  some  of  the  char- 
acters of  banks  of  flowers.  Also,  some  ornaments  require  to 
be  subdued  in  value,  that  they  may  not  interfere  with  the  ef- 
fect of  others  ; and  aU  these  necessary  are  attained 

by  means  of  departing  from  natural  forms — it  being  an  estab- 
lished law  of  human  admiration  that  what  is  most  representa^ 
tive  of  nature  shall,  cceteris  paribus,  be  most  attractive. 

All  the  various  kinds  of  ornamentation,  consisting  of  spots, 


282 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


points,  twisted  bands,  abstract  curves,  and  other  such,  ovv'g 
their  joeculiar  character  to  this  conventionalism  “ by  cause  of 
inferiority.” 

C.  Conventionalism  by  cause  of  means. — In  every  branch 
of  art,  only  so  much  imitation  of  nature  is  to  be  admitted  as 
is  consistent  with  the  ease  of  the  workman  and  the  capacities 
of  the  material.  Whatever  shortcomings  are  appointed  (for 
they  are  more  than  permitted,  they  are  in  such  cases  ap- 
pointed, and  meritorious)  on  account  of  the  untractableness 
of  the  material,  come  under  the  head  of  conventionalism  by 
cause  of  means.” 

These  conventionalities,  then,  being  duly  understood  and 
accepted,  in  modification  of  the  general  law,  that  law  will  be, 
that  the  glory  of  all  ornamentation  consists  in  the  adoption 
or  imitation  of  the  beauties  of  natural  objects,  and  that  no 
work  can  be  of  high  value  which  is  not  full  of  this  beauty.  To 
this  fourth  pro^^osition,  modern  architects  have  not  ventured 
to  make  any  serious  resistance.  On  the  contrary,  they  seem 
to  be,  little  by  little,  gliding  into  an  obscure  perception  of  the 
fact,  that  architecture,  in  most  periods  of  the  world,  had 
sculpture  upon  it,  and  that  the  said  sculpture  generally  did 
represent  something  intelligible.  For  instance,  we  find  Mr. 
Huggins,  of  Liverpool,  lately  lecturing  upon  architecture  “ in 
its  relations  to  nature  and  the  intellect,”'-^  and  gravely  inform- 
ing his  hearers,  that  “ in  the  middle  ages,  angels  were  human 
figures  ; ” that  “ some  of  the  richest  ornaments  of  Solomon’s 
teniifie  were  imitated  from  the  palm  and  pomegranate,”  and 
that  “ the  Greeks  followed  the  example  of  the  Egyptians  in 
selecting  their  ornaments  from  the  ‘plarda  of  their  own  coun- 
try.” It  is  to  be  presumed  that  the  lecturer  has  never  been 
in  the  Elgin  or  Egyptian  room  of  the  British  Museum,  or  it 
might  have  occurred  to  him  that  the  Egyptians  and  Greeks 
sometimes  also  selected  their  ornaments  from  the  men  of  their 
own  country.  But  we  must  not  expect  too  much  illumination 
at  once  ; and  as  we  are  told  that,  in  conclusion,  Mr.  Huggins 
glanced  at  “ the  error  of  architects  in  neglecting  the  fountain  of 


* See  the  “ Builder,”  for  January  12,  1854. 


AND  PAINTING. 


283 


wisdom  thus  open  to  them  in  nature,”  we  may  expect  in  due 
time  large  results  from  the  discovery  of  a source  of  wisdom  so 
mhmagined. 

Proposition  5th. — Ornamentation  should  he  thoughtful.  That 
is  to  say,  whenever  you  put  a chisel  or  a pencil  into  a man’s 
hand  for  the  purpose  of  enabling  him  to  produce  beauty,  you 
are  to  expect  of  him  that  he  will  think  about  what  he  is  doing, 
and  feel  something  about  it,  and  that  the  expression  of  this 
thought  or  feeling  will  be  the  most  noble  quality  in  what  he 
produces  with  his  chisel  or  brush,  inasmuch  as  the  power 
of  thinking  and  feeling  is  the  most  noble  thing  in  man.  It 
will  hence  follow  that  as  men  do  not  commonly  think  the  same 
thoughts  twice,  you  are  not  to  require  of  them  that  they  shall 
do  the  same  thing  twice.  You  are  to  expect  another  and  a 
different  thought  of  them,  as  soon  as  one  thought  has  been 
well  expressed. 

Hence,  therefore,  it  follows  also  that  all  noble  ornamenta- 
tion is  perpetually  varied  ornamentation,  and  that  the  mo- 
ment you  find  ornamentation  unchanging,  you  may  know  that 
it  is  of  a degraded  kind  or  degraded  school.  To  this  law,  the 
only  exceptions  arise  out  of  the  uses  of  monotony,  as  a con- 
trast to  a change.  Many  subordinate  architectural  mouldings 
are  severely  alike  in  their  various  parts  (though  never  unless 
they  are  thoroughly  subordinate,  for  monotony  is  always 
deathful  according  to  the  degree  of  it),  in  order  to  set  off 
change  in  others  ; and  a certain  monotony  or  similarity  must 
be  introduced  among  the  most  changeful  ornaments  in  order 
to  enhance  and  exhibit  their  own  changes. 

The  truth  of  this  proposition  is  self-evident ; for  no  art  can 
be  noble  which  is  incapable  of  expressing  thought,  and  no  art 
is  capable  of  expressing  thought  which  does  not  change.  To 
require  of  an  artist  that  he  should  always  reproduce  the  same 
picture,  would  be  not  one  whit  more  base  than  to  require  of 
a carver  that  he  should  always  reproduce  the  same  sculpture. 

The  principle  is  perfectly  clear  and  altogether  incontroverti- 
ble. Apply  it  to  modern  Greek  architecture,  and  that  archi- 
tecture must  cease  to  exist ; for  it  depends  absolutely  on 
copyism. 


284 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


The  sixth  proi:)osition  above  stated,  that  Gothic  ornamenta- 
tion is  nobler  than  Greek  ornamentation,  &c.,  is  therefore  suffi- 
ciently proved  by  the  acceptance  of  this  one  principle,  no  less 
important  than  unassailable.  Of  all  that  I have  to  bring  for- 
^Yard  respecting  architecture,  this  is  the  one  I have  most  at 
heart ; for  on  the  acceptance  of  this  depends  the  determina- 
tion whether  the  workman  shall  be  a living,  progressive,  and 
happy  human  being,  or  whether  he  shall  be  a mere  machine, 
with  its  valves  smoothed  by  heart’s  blood  instead  of  oil, — the 
most  pitiable  form  of  slave. 

And  it  is  with  especial  reference  to  the  denial  of  this  prin- 
cijde  in  modern  and  renaissance  architecture,  that  I speak  of 
that  architecture  with  a bitterness  wffiich  appears  to  many 
readers  extreme,  while  in  reality,  so  far  from  exaggerating,  I 
have  not  grasp  enough  of  thought  to  embrace,  the  evils  which 
have  resulted  among  all  the  orders  of  European  society  from 
the  introduction  of  the  renaissance  schools  of  building,  in 
turning  away  the  eyes  of  the  beholder  from  natural  beauty, 
and  reducing  the  workman  to  the  level  of  a machine.  Li  the 
Gothic  times,  writing,  painting,  carving,  casting, — it  mattered 
not  what, — were  all  works  done  by  thoughtful  and  happy 
men  ; and  the  illumination  of  the  volume,  and  the  carving 
and  casting  of  wall  and  gate,  employed,  not  thousands,  but 
millions,  of  true  and  noble  artists  over  all  Christian  lands. 
Men  in  the  same  position  are  now  left  utterly  without  intel- 
lectual power  or  pursuit,  and,  being  unhappy  in  their  work, 
they  rebel  against  it ; hence  one  of  the  worst  forms  of  Un- 
christian Socialism.  So  again,  there  being  now  no  nature  or 
variety  in  architecture,  the  multitude  are  not  interested  in  it ; 
therefore,  for  the  present,  they  have  lost  their  taste  for  art 
altogether,  so  that  you  can  no  longer  trust  sculj^ture  within 
their  reach.  Consider  the  innumerable  forms  of  evil  involved 
in  the  temper  and  taste  of  the  existing  populace  of  London 
or  Paris,  as  compared  wdth  the  temper  of  the  populace  of 
Florence,  when  the  quarter  of  Santa  Maria  Novella  received 
its  title  of  ‘‘Joyful  Quarter,”  from  the  rejoicings  of  the  multi- 
tude at  getting  a new  picture  into  their  cliurch,  better  than 
the  old  ones  ; — all  this  difference  being  cxclusx  nly  charge- 


AND  FAINTING. 


285 


fible  on  the  renaissance  architecture.  And  then,  farther,  if  we 
remember,  not  only  the  revolutionary  ravage  of  sacred  archi- 
tecture, but  the  immeasurably  greater  destruction  effected  by 
the  renaissance  builders  and  their  satellites,  wherever  they 
came,  destruction  so  wide-sj^read  that  there  is  not  a town  in 
France  or  Italy  but  it  has  to  deplore  the  deliberate  overthrow 
of  more  than  half  its  noblest  monuments,  in  order  to  put  up 
Greek  porticoes  or  palaces  in  their  stead  ; adding  also  all  the 
blame  of  the  ignorance  of  the  meaner  kind  of  men,  operating 
in  thousands  of  miserable  abuses  uj)on  the  frescoes,  books, 
and  pictures,  as  the  architects’  hammers  did  on  the  carved 
work,  of  the  Middle  Ages  ; and,  finally,  if  we  examine  the 
influence  which  the  luxury,  and,  still  more,  the  heathenism, 
joined  with  the  essential  dulness  of  these  schools,  have  had 
on  the  upper  classes  of  society,  it  will  ultimately  be  found 
that  no  expressions  are  energetic  enough  to  describe,  nor 
broad  enough  to  embrace,  the  enormous  moral  evils  which 
have  risen  from  them. 

I omitted,  in  preparing  the  preceding  lecture  for  the  press, 
a passage  referring  to  this  subject,  because  it  appeared  to  me, 
in  its  place,  hardly  explained  by  preceding  statements.  But 
I give  it  here  unaltered,  as  being,  in  sober  earnest,  but  too 
weak  to  characterise  the  tendencies  of  the  “ accui’sed  ” archi- 
tecture of  which  it  speaks. 

“Accursed,  I call  it,  with  deliberate  purpose.  It  needed 

* Nothing  appears  to  me  much  more  wonderful,  than  the  remorseless 
way  in  which  the  educated  ignorance,  even  of  the  present  day,  will 
sweep  away  an  ancient  monument,^  if  its  preservation  be  not  absolutely 
consistent  with  immediate  convenience  or  economy.  Putting  aside  all 
antiquarian  considerations,  and  all  artistical  ones,  I wish  that  people 
would  only  consider  the  steps,  and  the  weight  of  the  following  very 
simple  argument.  You  allow  it  is  wrong  to  waste  time,  that  is,  your 
own  time  ; but  then  it  must  be  still  more  wrong  to  waste  other  peojjle’s  ; 
for  you  have  some  right  to  your  own  time,  but  none  to  theirs.  Well, 
then,  if  it  is  thus  wrong  to  waste  the  time  of  the  living,  it  must  be 
still  more  wrong  to  waste  the  time  of  the  dead  ; for  the  living  can  re- 
deem their  time,  the  dead  cannot.  But  you  waste  the  best  of  the  time 
of  the  dead  when  you  destroy  the  works  they  have  left  you  ; for  to 
those  works  they  gave  the  best  of  their  time,  intending  them  for  im- 
mortality. 


280 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


"but  the  gatliering  up  of  a Babylonish  garment  to  trouble 
Israel ; — these  marble  garments  of  the  ancient  idols  of  the 
Gentiles,  how  many  have  they  troubled?  Gathered  out  of 
their  ruins  by  the  second  Bablyon, — gathered  by  the  Papal 
Church  in  the  extremity  of  her  sin  ; — raised  up  by  her,  not 
when  she  was  sending  forth  her  champions  to  preach  in  the 
highway,  and  pine  in  the  desert,  and  perish  in  the  fire,  but  in 
the  very  scarlet  fruitage  and  fulness  of  her  guilt,  when  her 
priests  vested  themselves  not  with  purple  only,  but  with  blood, 
and  bade  the  cups  of  their  feasting  foam  not  with  wine  only,  but 
with  hemlock  ; — raised  by  the  hands  of  the  Leos  and  the  Bor- 
gias,  raised  first  into  that  mighty  temple  where  the  seven  hills 
slope  to  the  Tiber,  that  marks  by  its  massy  dome  the  central 
spot,  where  Borne  has  reversed  the  words  of  Christ,  and,  as 
He  vivified  the  stone  to  the  apostleship,  she  petrifies  the  apos- 
tleship  into  the  stumbling  stone  ; — exalted  there  first  as  if  to 
mark  what  work  it  had  to  do,  it  went  forth  to  j^aralyse  or  to 
pollute,  and  wherever  it  came,  the  lustre  faded  from  the  streets 
of  our  cities,  the  grey  towers  and  glorious  arches  of  our 
abbeys  fell  by  the  river  sides,  the  love  of  nature  was  uprooted 
from  the  hearts  of  men,  base  luxuries  and  cruel  formalisms 
were  festered  and  frozen  into  them  from  their  youth  ; and  at 
last,  where,  from  his  fair  Gothic  chapel  beside  the  Seine,  the 
king  St.  Louis  had  gone  forth  followed  by  his  thousands  in 
the  cause  of  Christ,  another  king  was  dragged  forth  from  the 
gates  of  his  Benaissance  palace,*  to  die  by  the  hands  of  the 

* The  character  of  Renaissance  architecture,  and  the  spirit  which  dic- 
tated its  adoption,  may  he  remembered  as  having  been  centred  and 
symbolized  in  the  palace  of  Versailles:  whose  site  was  chosen  by  Louis 
the  Fourteenth,  in  order  that  from  thence  he  might  iwt  see  St.  Denis, 
the  burial  place  of  his  family.  The  cost  of  the  palace  in  27  years  is 
stated  in  the  “ Builder  ” for  March  18th  of  this  year,  to  have  been 
3,246,000h  money  of  that  period,  equal  to  about  seven  millions  now 
(900,000Z.  having  been  expended  in  the  year  1G8G  alone).  The  build- 
ing is  thus  notably  illustrative  of  the  two  feelings  which  were  stated  in 
the  “Stones  of  Venice,”  to  be  peculiarly  characteristic  of  the  Renais- 
sance spirit,  the  Pride  of  State  and  Fear  of  Death.  Compare  the  horror 
of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  at  the  sight  of  the  tower  of  St.  Denis,  with  the 
feeling  which  prompted  the  Scaligeri  at  Verona  to  set  their  tombs  within 
fifteen  feet  of  their  palace  walls. 


AND  PAINTING. 


287 


thousands  of  his  people  gathered  in  another  crusade  ; or  what 
shall  that  be  called — whose  sign  was  not  the  cross,  but  the 
guillotine  ! ” 

I have  not  space  here  to  pursue  the  subject  farther,  nor 
shall  I be  able  to  write  anything  more  respecting  architecture 
for  some  time  to  come.  But  in  the  meanwhile,  I would  most 
earnestly  desire  to  leave  with  the  reader  this  one  subject  of 
thought — “ The  Life  of  the  Workman.’*  For  it  is  singular, 
and  far  more  than  singular,  that  among  all  the  writers  who 
have  attempted  to  examine  the  principles  stated  in  the 
“ Stones  of  Venice,”  not  one*  has  as  yet  made  a single  com- 
ment on  what  was  precisely  and  accurately  the  most  impor- 
tant chapter  in  the  whole  book  ; namely,  the  description  of 
the  nature  of  Gothic  architecture,  as  involving  the  liberty  of 
the  workman  (vol.  ii.  ch.  vi.).  I had  hoped  that  whatever 
might  be  the  prejudices  of  modern  architects,  there  would 
have  been  found  some  among  them  quicksighted  enough  to 
see  the  bearings  of  this  principle,  and  generous  enough  to 
support  it.  There  has  hitherto  stood  forward  not  one. 

But  my  purpose  must  at  last  be  accomplished  for  all  this. 
The  labourer  among  the  gravestones  of  our  modern  architect- 
ure must  yet  be  raised  up,  and  become  a living  soul.  Before 
he  can  be  thus  raised,  the  whole  system  of  Greek  architecture, 
as  practised  in  the  present  day,  must  be  annihilated  ; but  it 
will  be  annihilated,  and  that  speedily.  For  truth  and  judg- 
ment are  its  declared  opposites,  and  against  these  nothing 
ever  finally  prevailed,  or  shall  prevail. 


LECTUKE  m. 

TURNER,  AND  HIS  WORKS. 

My  object  this  evening  is  not  so  much  to  give  you  any  ac- 
count of  the  works  or  the  genius  of  the  great  painter  whom 
we  have  so  lately  lost  (which  it  would  require  rather  a year 

* An  article  in  Fraser’s  Magazine,  which  has  appeared  since  these 
sheets  were  sent  to  press,  forms  a solitary  exception. 


288 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


than  an  hour  to  do),  as  to  give  you  some  idea  of  the  position 
which  his  works  hold  with  respect  to  the  landscape  of  other 
periods,  and  of  the  general  condition  and  prospects  of  the 
landscajoe  art  of  the  present  day.  I will  not  lose  time  in  pref- 
atory remarks,  as  I have  little  enough  at  any  rate,  but  will 
enter  abruptly  on  my  subject. 

You  are  all  of  you  well  aware  that  landscape  seems  hardly 
to  have  exercised  any  strong  influence,  as  such,  on  any  pagan 
nation,  or  pagan  artist.  I have  no  time  to  enter  into  any  de- 
tails on  this,  of  course,  most  intricate  and  difficult  subject ; 
but  I will  only  ask  you  to  observe,  that  wherever  natural 
scenery  is  alluded  to  by  the  ancients,  it  is  either  agricultu- 
rally, with  the  kind  of  feeling  that  a good  Scotch  farmer  has  ; 
sensually,  in  the  enjoyment  of  sun  or  shade,  cool  winds  or 
sweet  scents  ; fearfully,  in  a mere  vulgar  dread  of  rocks  and 
desolate  places,  as  compared  with  the  comfort  of  cities ; or, 
finally,  superstitiously,  in  the  personification  or  deification 
of  natural  j^owers  generally  with  much  degradation  of  their 
impressiveness,  as  in  the  paltry  fables  of  Ulysses  receiving 
the  winds  in  bags  from  Jilolus,  and  of  the  Cyclops  ham- 
mering lightning  shai-]^)  at  the  ends,  on  an  anvil. Of  course 
you  will  here  and  there  find  feeble  evidences  of  a higher  sen- 
sibility, chiefly,  I think,  in  Plato,  ^schylus,  Aristophanes,  and 
Vii'gil.  Homer,  though  in  the  epithets  he  applies  to  land- 
scaj)e  always  thoroughly  graphic,  uses  the  same  epithet  for 
rocks,  seas,  and  trees,  from  one  end  of  his  poem  to  the  other, 
evidently  without  the  smallest  interest  in  anything  of  the 
kind ; and  in  the  mass  of  heathen  writers,  the  absence  of  sen- 
sation on  these  subjects  is  singularly  painful.  For  instance, 
in  that,  to  my  mind,  most  disgusting  of  all  so-called  poems, 
the  journey  to  Brundusium,  you  remember  that  Horace  takes 

* Of  course  I do  not  mean  by  calling  these  fables  “paltry,”  to  dispute 
their  neatness,  ingenuity,  or  moral  depth  ; but  only  their  want  of  ap- 
prehension of  the  extent  and  awfulness  of  the  phenomena  introduced. 
So  also,  in  denying  Homer’s  interest  in  nature,  I do  not  mean  to  deny 
liis  accuracy  of  observation,  or  his  power  of  seizing  on  the  main  points 
of  landscape,  but  I deny  the  power  of  landscape  over  his  heart,  unless 
when  closely  associated  with,  and  altogether  subordinate  to,  some  hu« 
man  interest. 


AND  PAINTING. 


289 


exactly  as  much  interest  in  the  scenery  he  is  passing  through, 
as  Sancho  Panza  would  have  done. 

You  will  find,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  language  of  the 
Bible  is  specifically  distinguished  from  all  other  early  litera- 
ture, by  its  delight  in  natural  imagery  ; and  that  the  dealings 
of  God  with  his  people  are  calculated  peculiarly  to  awaken 
this  sensibility  within  them.  Out  of  the  monotonous  valley 
of  Egypt  they  are  instantly  taken  into  the  midst  of  the  might- 
iest mountain  scenery  in  the  peninsula  of  Arabia ; and  that 
scenery  is  associated  in  their  minds  with  the  immediate  mani- 
festation and  presence  of  the  Divine  Power ; so  that  moun- 
tains for  ever  afterwards  become  invested  with  a peculiar  sa- 
credness in  their  minds  ; while  their  descendants  being  placed 
in  what  was  then  one  of  the  loveliest  districts  upon  the  earth, 
full  of  glorious  vegetation,  bounded  on  one  side  by  the  sea, 
on  the  north  by  “ that  goodly  mountain  ” Lebanon,  on  the 
south  and  east  by  deserts,  whose  barrenness  enhanced  by  their 
contrast  the  sense  of  the  perfection  of  beauty  in  their  own 
land,  they  became,  by  these  means,  and  by  the  touch  of  God’s 
own  hand  upon  their  hearts,  sensible  to  the  appeal  of  natural 
scenery  in  a way  in  which  no  other  people  were  at  the  time ; 
and  their  literature  is  full  of  expressions,  not  only  testifying 
a vivid  sense  of  the  power  of  nature  over  man,  but  showing 
that  sympathy  with  natural  things  themselves,  as  if  they  had 
human  souls,  which  is  the  especial  characteristic  of  true  love 
of  the  works  of  God.  I intended  to  have  insisted  on  this 
sympathy  at  greater  length,  but  I found,  only  two  or  three 
days  ago,  much  of  what  I had  to  say  to  you  anticipated  in  a 
little  book,  unpretending,  but  full  of  interest,  “The  Lamp 
and  the  Lantern,”  by  Dr.  James  Hamilton  ; and  I will  there- 
fore only  ask  you  to  consider  such  expressions  as  that  tender 
and  glorious  verse  in  Isaiah,  speaking  of  the  cedars  on  the 
mountains  as  rejoicing  over  the  fall  of  the  king  of  Assyria  : 
“ Yea,  the  fir  trees  rejoice  at  thee,  and  the  cedars  of  Lebanon, 
saying.  Since  thou  art  gone  down  to  the  grave,  no  feller  is 
come  up  against  us.”  See  what  sympathy  there  is  here,  as  if 
with  the  very  hearts  of  the  trees  themselves.  So  also  in  the 
words  of  Christ,  in  his  personification  of  the  hlies : “ They 


290 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


toil  not,  neither  do  the}^  spin.”  Consider  such  expressions  as, 
“ The  sea  saw  that,  and  lied,  Joi’dan  was  driven  back.  The 
mountains  skipped  like  rams  ; and  the  little  hills  like  lambs.” 
Try  to  find  anything  in  profane  writing  like  this ; and  note 
farther  that  the  whole  book  of  Job  appears  to  have  been 
chiefly  written  and  placed  in  the  inspired  volume  in  order  to 
show  the  value  of  natural  history,  and  its  power  on  the  human 
heart.  I cannot  pass  by  it  without  pointing  out  the  evidences 
of  the  beauty  of  the  country  that  Job  inhabited.* 

Observe,  first,  it  was  an  arable  country.  “'The  oxen  were 
ploughing,  and  tlie  asses  feeding  beside  them.”  It  was  a joas- 
toral  country : his  substance,  besides  camels  and  asses,  was 
7,000  sheep.  It  was  a mountain  country,  fed  by  streams  de- 
scending from  the  high  snows.  My  brethren  have  dealt 
deceitfully  as  a brook,  and  as  the  stream  of  brooks  they  pass 
away  ; which  are  blackish  by  reason  of  the  ice,  and  wherein 
the  snow  is  hid : What  time  they  wax  warm  they  vanish : 
when  it  is  hot  they  are  consumed  out  of  their  place.”  Again  : 

If  I wash  myself  with  snow  water,  and  make  my  hands  never 
so  clean.”  Again:  “Drought  and  heat  consume  the  snow 
w^aters.”  It  was  a rocky  country,  with  forests  and  verdure 
rooted  in  the  rocks.  “ His  branch  shooteth  forth  in  his  gar- 
den ; his  roots  are  wrapped  about  tlie  heap,  and  seeth  the 
place  of  stones.”  Again  : “ Thou  shalt  be  in  league  with  the 
stones  of  the  field.”  It  was  a place  visited,  like  the  valleys  of 
Switzerland,  by  convulsions  and  falls  of  mountains.  “ Surely 
the  mountain  falling  cometh  to  nought,  and  the  rock  is  re- 
moved out  of  his  place.”  “The  waters  wear  the  stones  : thou 
washest  away  tlie  things  which  grow  out  of  the  dust  of  the 
earth.”  “He  removeth  the  mountains  and  they  know  not: 
he  overturneth  them  in  his  anger.”  “He  putteth  forth  his 
hand  upon  the  rock  : he  overturneth  the  mountains  by  the 
roots;  he  cutteth  out  rivers  among  the  rocks.”  I have  not 
time  to  go  farther  into  this  ; but  you  see  Job’s  country  was 
one  like  your  own,  full  of  pleasant  brooks  and  rivers,  rushing 
among  the  rocks,  and  of  all  other  sweet  and  noble  elements 

* This  passage,  respecting  the  book  of  Job,  was  omitted  in  the  deliv 
erj  of  the  Lecture,  for  want  of  time. 


AND  PAINTING. 


291 


of  landscape.  The  magnificent  allusions  to  natural  scenery 
throughout  the  book  are  therefore  calculated  to  touch  the 
heart  to  the  end  of  time. 

Then  at  the  central  point  of  Jewish  prosperity,  you  have 
the  first  great  naturalist  the  world  ever  saw,  Solomon  ; not 
permitted,  indeed,  to  anticipate,  in  writing,  the  discoveries 
of  modern  times,  but  so  gifted  as  to  show  us  that  heavenly 
wisdom  is  manifested  as  much  in  the  knowledge  of  the  hyssop 
that  springeth  out  of  the  wall  as  in  political  and  philosophical 
speculation. 

The  books  of  the  Old  Testament,  as  distinguished  from  all 
other  early  wTitings,  are  thus  prepared  for  an  everlasting- 
influence  over  humanity ; and,  finally,  Christ  himself,  setting 
the  concluding  example  to  the  conduct  and  thoughts  of  men, 
spends  nearly  his  whole  life  in  the  fields,  the  mountains,  or 
the  small  country  villages  of  Judea  ; and  in  the  very  closing 
scenes  of  his  life,  will  not  so  much  as  sleep  within  the  walls 
of  Jerusalem,  but  rests  at  the  little  village  of  Bethphage, 
walking  in  the  morning,  and  returning  in  the  evening,  through 
the  peaceful  avenues  of  the  mount  of  Olives,  to  and  from  his 
work  of  teaching  in  the  temple. 

It  would  thus  naturally  follow,  both  from  the  general  tone 
and  teaching  of  the  Scriptures,  and  from  the  example  of  our 
Lord  himself,  that  wherever  Christianity  was  preached  and 
accepted,  there  would  be  an  immediate  interest  awakened  in 
the  works  of  God,  as  seen  in  the  natural  world  ; and,  accord- 
ingly, this  is  the  second  universal  and  distinctive  character  of 
Christian 'art,  as  distinguished  from  all  pagan  work,  the  first 
being  a peculiar  spirituality  in  its  conception  of  the  human 
form,  preferring  holiness  of  expression  and  strength  of  char- 
acter, to  beauty  of  features  or  of  body,  and  the  second,  as  I 
say,  its  intense  fondness  for  natural  objects — animals,  leaves 
and  flowers, — inducing  an  immediate  transformation  of  the 
cold  and  lifeless  pagan  ornamentation  into  vivid  imagery  of 
nature.  Of  course  this  manifestation  of  feeling  was  at  first 
checked  by  the  circumstances  under  which  the  Christian  re- 
ligion was  disseminated.  The  art  of  the  first  three  centuries 
is  entirely  subordinate, — restrained  partly  by  persecution, 


292 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


partly  by  a higli  spirituality,  which  cared  much  more  about 
preaching  than  painting  ; and  then  when,  under  Constantine, 
Christianity  became  the  religion  of  the  Itoman  empire,  myr- 
iads of  persons  gave  the  aid  of  their  wealth  and  of  their  art 
to  the  new  religion,  who  were  Christians  in  nothing  but  the 
name,  and  who  decorated  a Christian  temple  just  as  they 
would  have  decorated  a pagan  one,  merely  because  the  new 
religion  had  become  Imperial.  Then,  just  as  the  new  art  was 
beginning  to  assume  a distinctive  form,  down  came  the 
northern  barbarians  upon  it ; and  all  their  su2:)erstitions  had 
to  be  leavened  with  it,  and  all  their  hard  hands  and  hearts 
softened  by  it,  before  their  art  could  appear  in  anything  like 
a characteristic  form.  The  warfare  in  which  Europe  was 
perpetually  plunged  retarded  this  development  for  ages  ; but 
it  steadily  and  gradually  prevailed,  working  from  the  eighth 
to  the  eleventh  century  like  a seed  in  the  ground,  showing 
little  signs  of  life,  but  still,  if  carefully  examined,  changing 
essentially  every  day  and  every  hour  : at  last,  in  the  twelfth 
century,  the  blade  appears  above  the  black  earth  ; in  the 
thirteenth,  the  plant  is  in  full  leaf. 

I begin,  then,  with  the  thirteenth  century,  and  must  now 
make  to  you  a general  assertion,  which,  if  you  will  note  down 
and  examine  at  your  leisure,  you  will  find  true  and  useful, 
though  I have  not  time  at  present  to  give  you  full  demonstra- 
tion of  it. 

I say,  then,  that  the  art  of  the  thirteenth  century  is  the 
foundation  of  all  art, — not  merely  the  foundation,  but  the 
root  of  it ; that  is  to  say,  succeeding  art  is  not  merely  built 
upon  it,  but  was  all  comprehended  in  it,  and  is  developed 
out  of  it.  Passing  this  great  century  we  find  three  successive 
branches  developed  from  it,  in  each  of  the  three  following 
centuries.  The  fourteenth  century  is  pre-eminently  the  age 
of  Thought,  the  fifteenth  the  age  of  Drawing,  and  the  six- 
teenth the  age  of  Painting. 

Observe,  first,  the  fourteenth  century  is  pre-eminently  the 
age  of  thought.  It  begins  with  the  first  words  of  the  poem 
of  Dante  ; — and  all  the  great  pictorial  poems — the  mighty 
series  of  works  in  which  everything  is  done  to  relate,  but 


AND  PAINTING. 


29;] 

nothing  to  imitate — belong  to  this  century.  I should  only 
confuse  you  by  giving  you  the  names  of  marvellous  artists, 
most  of  them  little  familiar  to  British  ears,  who  adorned  this 
century  in  Italy  ; but  you  will  easily  remember  it  as  the  age 
of  Dante  and  Giotto, — the  age  of  Thought. 

The  men  of  the  succeeding  century  (the  fifteenth)  felt  that 
they  could  not  rival  their  predecessors  in  invention  but  might 
excel  them  in  execution.  Original  thoughts  belonging  to  this 
century  are  comparatively  rare  ; even  Kaphael  and  Michael 
Angelo  themselves  borrowed  all  their  principal  ideas  and 
plans  of  pictures  from  their  predecessors  ; but  they  executed 
them  with  a precision  up  to  that  time  unseen.  You  must 
understand  by  the  word  “ drawing,”  the  perfect  rendering  of 
forms,  whether  in  sculpture  or  painting ; and  then  remember 
the  fifteenth  century  as  the  age  of  Leonardo,  Michael  Angelo, 
Lorenzo  Ghiberti,  and  Raphael, — pre-eminently  the  age  of 
Dr  aiding. 

The  sixteenth  century  produced  the  four  greatest  Painters, 
that  is  to  say,  managers  of  colour,  whom  the  world  has  seen  ; 
namely,  Tintoret,  Paul  Veronese,  Titian,  and  Correggio.  I 
need  not  say  more  to  justify  my  calling  it  the  age  of  Paint- 
ing. 

This,  then,  being  the  state  of  things  respecting  art  in  gen- 
eral, let  us  next  trace  the  career  of  landscape  through  these 
centuries. 

It  was  only  towards  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century  that  fig- 
ure painting  began  to  assume  so  perfect  a condition  as  to  require 
some  elaborate  suggestion  of  landscape  background.  Up  to 
that  time,  if  any  natural  object  had  to  be  represented,  it  was 
done  in  an  entirely  conventional  way,  as  you  see  it  upon  Greek 
vases,  or  in  a Chinese  porcelain  pattern  ; an  independent  tree 
or  flower  being  set  qpon  the  white  ground,  or  ground  of  any 
colour,  wherever  there  was  a vacant  space  for  it,  without  the 
smallest  attempt  to  imitate  the  real  colours  and  relations  of  the 
earth  and  sky  about  it.  But  at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, Giotto,  and  in  the  course  of  the  fourteenth,  Orcagna, 
sought,  for  the  first  time,  to  give  some  resemblance  to  nature 
in  their  backgrounds,  and  introduce  behind  their  figures  pieces 


21)4 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


of  true  landscape,  formal  enough  still,  but  complete  in  inten* 
tion,  having  foregrounds  and  distances,  sky  and  water,  forests 
and  mountains,  carefully  delineated,  not  exactly  in  their  true 
colour,  but  yet  in  colour  approximating  to  the  truth.  The 
system  which  they  introduced  (for  though  in  many  points  en^ 
riched  above  the  work  of  earlier  ages,  the  Orcagna  and  Giotto 
landscape  was  a very  complete  piece  of  recipe)  was  observed 
for  a long  period  by  their  pupils,  and  may  be  thus  briefly 
described  : — The  sky  is  always  j^ure  blue,  paler  at  the  horizon, 
and  with  a few  streaky  white  clouds  in  it ; the  ground  is  green 
even  to  the  extreme  distance,  with  brown  rocks  projecting 
from  it ; water  is  blue  streaked  with  white.  The  trees  are 
nearly  always  composed  of  clusters  of  their  proper  leaves  re- 
lieved on  a black  or  dark  ground,  thus  {jig.  20.).*  And  ob- 
serve carefully,  with  respect  to  the  complete  drawing  of  the 
leaves  on  this  tree,  and  the  smallness  of  their  number,  the 
real  distinction  between  noble  conventionalism  and  false  con- 
ventionalism. You  will  often  hear  modern  architects  defend- 
ing their  monstrous  ornamentation  on  the  ground  that  it  is 
“conventional,”  and  that  architectural  ornament  ought  to  be 
conventionalised.  Kemember  when  you  hear  this,  that  noble 
conventionalism  is  not  an  agreement  between  the  artist  and 
spectator  that  the  one  shall  misrepresent  nature  sixty  times 
over,  and  the  other  believe  the  misrepresentation  sixty  times 
over,  but  it  is  an  agreement  that  certain  means  and  limitations 
being  prescribed,  only  that  hind  of  truth  is  to  be  expected 
which  is  consistent  with  those  means.  For  instance,  if  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  had  been  talking  to  a friend  about  the  char- 
acter of  a face,  and  there  had  been  nothing  in  the  room  but 
a deal  table  and  an  inkbottle — and  no  pens — Sir  Joshua  would 
have  dipped  his  finger  in  the  ink,  and  painted  a portrait 
on  the  table  with  his  finger, — and  a noble  portrait  too,  cer- 
tainly not  delicate  in  outline,  nor  representing  any  of  the 

* Having  no  memoranda  of  my  own  taken  from  Giotto’s  landscape,  I 
had  this  tree  copied  from  an  engraving  ; but  I imagine  the  rude  termi- 
nation of  the  stems  to  be  a misrepresentation.  Fig.  81  is  accurately 
copied  from  an  MS.,  certainly  executed  between  1250  and  1270,  and  i* 
more  truly  characteristic  of  the  early  manner. 


AND  PAINTING. 


295 


qualities  of  the  face  dependent  on  rich  outline,  but  getting  as 
much  of  the  face  as  in  that  manner  was  attainable.  That  is 
noble  conventionalism,  and  Egyptian  work  on  granite,  or  illu- 
minator’s work  in  glass,  is  all  conventional  in  the  same  sense, 
but  not  conventionally  false.  The  two  noblest  and  ti'iiest 
carved  lions  I have  ever  seen,  are  the  two  granite  ones  in  the 
Egyptian  room  of  the  British  Museum,  and  yet  in  them,  the 
lions’  manes  and  beards  are  represented  by  rings  of  solid 
rock,  as  smooth  as  a mirror  ! 

There  are  indeed  one  or  two  other  conditions  of  noble  con- 
ventionalism, noticed  more  fully  in  the  Addenda  to  this  Lect- 
ure ; but  you  will  find  that  they  always  consist  in  stojjping 
short  of  nature,  not  in  falsifying  nature  ; and  thus  in  Giotto’s 
foliage,  he  stops  short  of  the  quantity  of  leaves  on  the  real 
tree,  but  he  gives  you  the  form  of  the  leaves  represented  with 
perfect  truth.  His  foreground  also  is  nearly  always  occupied 
by  flowers  and  herbage,  carefully  and  individually  painted 
from  nature  ; while,  although  thus  simple  in  plan,  the  ar- 
rangements of  line  in  these  landscapes  of  course  show  the 
influence  of  the  master-mind,  and  sometimes,  where  the  story 
requires  it,  we  find  the  usual  formulae  overleaped,  and  Giotto 
at  Avignon  painting  the  breakers  of  the  sea  on  a steep  shore 
with  great  care,  while  Orcagna,  in  his  triumph  of  Death,  has 
painted  a thicket  of  brambles  mixed  with  teazles,  in  a manner 
worthy  of  the  best  days  of  landscape  art. 

Now  from  the  landscape  of  these  two  men  to  the  landscape 
of  Eaphael,  Leonardo,  and  Perugino,  the  advance  consists 
principally  in  two  great  steps  : The  first,  that  distant  objects 
were  more  or  less  invested  with  a blue  colour, — the  second, 
that  trees  were  no  longer  painted  with  a black  ground,  but 
with  a rich  dark  brown,  or  deep  green.  Erom  Giotto’s  old 
age,  to  the  youth  of  Eaphael,  the  advance  in  and  knowledge  of, 
landscape,  consisted  of  no  more  than  these  two  simple  steps  ; 
but  the  executioyi  of  landscape  became  infinitely  more  perfect 
and  elaborate.  All  the  flowers  and  leaves  in  the  foreground 
were  worked  out  with  the  same  perfection  as  the  features  of 
the  figures  ; in  the  middle  distance  the  brown  trees  were 
most  delicately  defined  against  the  sky  ; the  blue  mountains 


29G 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


in  the  extreme  distance  were  exquisitely  thrown  into  aerial 
gradations,  and  the  sky  and  clouds  were  perfect  in  transpar- 
ency and  softness.  But  still  there  is  no  real  advance  in  knowl- 
e<lge  of  natural  objects.  The  leaves  and  flowers  are,  indeed, 
admirably  painted,  and  thrown  into  various  intricate  group- 
ings, such  as  Giotto  could  not  have  attempted,  but  the  rocks 
and  water  are  still  as  conventional  and  imperfect  as  ever,  ex- 
cept only  in  colour : the  forms  of  rock  in  Leonardo’s  celebrated 
“ Vierge  aux  Eochers”  are  literally  no  better  than  those*  on  a 
china  plate.  Fig.  22.  shows  a portion  of  them  in  mere  out- 
line, with  one  cluster  of  the  leaves  above,  and  the  distant 
“ideal”  mountains.  On  the  whole,  the  most  satisfactory 
work  of  the  period  is  that  which  most  resembles  missal  paint- 
ing, that  is  to  say,  which  is  fullest  of  beautiful  flowers  and 
animals  scattered  among  the  landscape,  in  the  old  indepen- 
dent way,  like  the  birds  upon  a screen.  The  landscape  of 
Benozzo  Gozzoli  is  exquisitely  rich  in  incident  of  this  kind. 

The  first  man  who  entirely  broke  through  the  convention- 
ality of  his  time,  and  painted  pure  landscape,  was  Masaccio, 
but  he  died  too  young  to  effect  the  revolution  of  which  his 
genius  was  capable.  It  was  left  for  other  men  to  accomplish, 
namely,  for  Correggio  and  Titian.  These  two  painters  were 
the  first  who  relieved  the  foregrounds  of  their  landscape  from 
the  grotesque,  quaint,  and  crowded  formalism  of  the  early 
painters  ; and  gave  a close  approximation  to  the  forms  of  nat- 
ure in  all  things  ; retaining,  however,  thus  much  of  the  old 
system,  that  the  distances  were  for  the  most  part  painted  in 
deep  ultramarine  blue,  the  foregrounds  in  rich  green  and 
brown ; there  were  no  effects  of  sunshine  and  shadow,  but  a 
generally  quiet  glow  over  the  whole  scene  ; and  the  clouds, 
though  now  rolling  in  irregular  masses,  and  sometimes  richly 
involved  among  the  hills,  were  never  varied  in  conception,  or 
studied  from  nature.  There  were  no  changes  of  weather  in 
them,  no  rain  clouds  or  fair-weather  clouds,  nothing  but  va- 
rious shapes  of  the  cumulus  or  ciiTus,  introduced  for  the  sake 
of  light  on  the  deep  blue  sky.  Tintoret  and  Bonifazio  intro- 
duced more  natural  effects  into  this  monotonous  landscape  ; 
in  their  works  we  meet  with  showers  of  rain,  with  rainbows^ 


AND  PAINTING. 


297 


sunsets,  bright  reflections  in  water,  and  so  on  ; but  still  very 
subordinate,  and  carelessly  worked  out,  so  as  not  to  justify 
us  in  considering  their  landscape  as  forming  a class  by  it- 
self. 

Fig.  23.,  which  is  a branch  of  a tree  from  the  background 
of  Titian’s  “ St.  Jerome,”  at  Milan,  compared  with  fig.  20., 
will  give  you  a distinct  idea  of  the  kind  of  change  which  took 
place  from  the  time  of  Giotto  to  that  of  Titian,  and  j^ou  will 
find  that  this  whole  range  of  landscape  may  be  conveniently 
classed  in  three  divisions,  namely,  Giottesque,  Leonardesque, 
and  Titianesque  ; the  Giottesque  embracing  nearly  all  the  work 
of  the  fourteenth,  the  Leonardesque  that  of  the  fifteenth,  and 
the  Titianesque  that  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Now  you  see 
there  remained  a fourth  step  to  be  taken, — the  doing  away  with 
conventionalism  altogether,  so  as  to  create  the  perfect  art  of 
landscape  painting.  The  course  of  the  mind  of  Europe  was 
to  do  this ; but  at  the  very  moment  when  it  ought  to  have 
been  done,  the  art  of  all  civilised  nations  was  paralysed  at 
once  by  the  operation  of  the  poisonous  elements  of  infidelity 
and  classical  learning  together,  as  I have  endeavoured  to 
show  elsewhere.  In  tliis  paralysis,  like  a soldier  shot  as  he  is 
just  gaining  an  eminence,  the  art  of  the  seventeenth  century 
struggled  forward,  and  sank  upon  the  spot  it  had  been  en- 
deavouring to  attain.  The  step  which  should  have  freed 
landscape  from  conventionalism  was  actually  taken  by  Claude 
and  Salvator  Kosa,  but  taken  in  a state  of  palsy, — taken  so 
as  to  lose  far  more  than  was  gained.  For  up  to  this  time, 
no  painter  ever  had  thought  of  drawing  anything,  pebble  or 
blade  of  grass,  or  tree  or  mountain,  but  as  well  and  distinctly 
as  he  could  ; and  if  he  could  not  draw  it  completely,  he  drew 
it  at  least  in  a way  which  should  thoroughly  show  his  knowl- 
edge and  feeling  of  it.  For  instance,  you  saw  in  the  oak  tree 
of  the  Giottesque  period,  that  the  main  points  of  the  tree, 
the  true  shape  of  leaf  and  acorn,  were  all  there,  perfectly  and 
carefully  articulated,  and  so  they  continued  to  be  down  to  the 
time  of  Tintoret ; both  he  and  Titian  working  out  the  separate 
leaves  of  their  foliage  with  the  most  exquisite  botanical  care. 
But  now  observe  ; as  Christianity  had  brought  this  love  of  nat- 


21)8  LECTURES  ON  ARCUITECTURE 

ure  into  Paganism,  the  return  of  Paganism  in  the  shape  of  clas-. 
sical  learning  at  once  destroyed  this  love  of  nature  ; and  at  the 
moment  when  Claude  and  Salvator  made  the  final  effort  to 
paint  the  effects  of  nature  faithfully,  the  objects  of  nature  had 
ceased  to  be  regarded  with  affection  ; so  that,  while  people 
were  amused  and  interested  by  the  new  effects  of  sunsets 
over  green  seas,  and  of  tempests  bursting  on  rocky  moun- 
tains, which  were  introduced  by  the  rising  school,  they  entirely 
ceased  to  require  on  the  one  side,  or  bestow  on  the  other, 
that  care  and  thought  by  which  alone  the  beauty  of  nature 
can  be  understood.  The  older  painting  had  resembled  a 
careful  and  deeply  studied  diagram,  illustrative  of  the  most 
important  facts  ; it  was  not  to  be  understood  or  relished 
without  application  of  serious  thought ; on  the  contrary,  it 
developed  and  addressed  the  highest  powers  of  mind  belong- 
ing to  the  human  race  ; while  the  Claude  and  Salvator  paint- 
ing was  like  a scene  in  a theatre,  viciously  and  falsely  painted 
throughout,  and  presenting  a deceptive  a^q^earance  of  truth 
to  nature  ; understood,  as  far  as  it  went,  in  a moment,  but 
conveying  no  accurate  knowledge  of  anything,  and,  in  all  its 
operations  on  the  mind  unhealthy,  hopeless,  and  profitless. 

It  was,  however,  received  with  avidity ; for  this  main  rea- 
son, that  the  architecture,  domestic  life  and  manners  of  the 
period  were  gradually  getting  more  and  more  artificial ; as 
I showed  you  last  evening,  all  natural  beauty  had  ceased  to 
be  permitted  in  architectural  decoration,  while  the  habits  of 
society  led  them  more  and  more  to  live,  if  possible,  in  cities  ; 
and  the  dress,  language,  and  manners  of  men  in  general  were 
approximating  to  that  horrible  and  lifeless  condition  in 
which  you  find  them  just  before  the  outbreak  of  the  French 
Pevolution. 

Now,  observe  : exactly  as  hoops,  and  starch,  and  false  hair, 
and  all  that  in  mind  and  heart  these  things  typify  and  betray, 
as  these,  I say,  gained  upon  men,  there  was  a necessary  re- 
action in  favour  of  the  natural.  Men  had  never  lived  so  ut- 
terly in  defiance  of  the  laws  of  nature  before  ; but  they  could 
not  do  this  without  feeling  a strange  charm  in  that  which 
they  defied ; and,  accordingly,  we  find  this  reactionary  senti- 


AND  PAINTING. 


299 


ment  expressing  itself  in  a base  school  of  what  was  called 
pastoral  poetry  ; that  is  to  say,  poetry  written  in  praise  of  the 
country,  by  men  who  lived  in  coffee-houses  and  on  the  Mall. 
The  essence  of  pastoral  poetry  is  the  sense  of  strange  delight- 
fulness in  grass,  which  is  occasionally  felt  by  a man  who  has 
seldom  set  his  foot  on  it  ; it  is  essentially  the  poetry  of  the 
cockney,  and  for  the  most  part  corresponds  in  its  aim  and 
rank,  as  compared  with  other  literature,  to  the  porcelain 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses  on  a chimney-piece  as  com- 
pared with  great  works  of  sculpture. 

Of  course  all  good  poetry,  descriptive  of  rural  life,  is  essen- 
tially pastoral,  or  has  the  effect  of  the  pastoral,  on  the  minds 
of  men  living  in  cities  ; but  the  class  of  poetry  which  I mean, 
and  which  you  probably  understand,  by  the  term  pastoral,  is 
that  in  which  a farmer’s  girl  is  spoken  of  as  a “nymph,”  and 
a farmer’s  boy  as  a “ swain,”  and  in  which,  throughout,  a 
ridiculous  and  unnatural  refinement  is  supposed  to  exist  in 
rural  life,  merely  because  the  poet  himself  has  neither  had 
the  courage  to  endure  its  hardships,  nor  the  wit  to  conceive 
its  realities.  If  you  examine  the  literature  of  the  past  cen- 
tury, you  will  find  that  nearly  all  its  expressions,  having  ref- 
erence to  the  country,  show  something  of  this  kind  ; either 
a foolish  sentimentality,  or  a morbid  fear,  both  of  course 
coupled  with  the  most  curious  ignorance.  You  will  find  all 
its  descriptive  expressions  at  once  vague  and  monotonous. 
Brooks  are  always  “purling;”  birds  always  “warbling;” 
mountains  always  “ lift  their  horrid  peaks  above  the  clouds  ; ” 
vales  always  “ are  lost  in  the  shadow  of  gloomy  woods  ; ” a 
few  more  distinct  ideas  about  haymaking  and  curds  and 
cream,  acquired  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Eichmond  Bridge, 
serving  to  give  an  occasional  appearance  "of  freshness  to  the 
catalogue  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful  which  descended  from 
poet  to  poet ; while  a few  true  pieces  of  pastoral,  like  the 
“Vicar  of  Wakefield,”  and  Walton’s  “ Angler,”  relieved  the 
general  waste  of  dulness.  Even  in  these  better  productions, 
nothing  is  more  remarkable  than  the  general  conception  of 
the  country  merely  as  a series  of  green  fields,  and  the  com- 
bined ignorance  and  dread  of  more  sublime  scenery  ; of 


300 


LECTURES  ON  ARCIIITECrURE 


which  the  mysteries  and  dangers  were  enhanced  by  th(S 
difficulties  of  travelling  at  the  joeriod.  Thus  in  Walton’s 
“ Angler,”  you  have  a meeting  of  two  friends,  one  a Derby- 
shire man,  the  other  a lowland  traveller,  who  is  as  much 
alarmed,  and  uses  nearly  as  many  expressions  of  astonish- 
ment, at  having  to  go  down  a steep  hill  and  ford  a brook,  as 
a traveller  uses  now  at  crossing  the  glacier  of  the  Col  de 
Geant.  I am  not  sure  whether  the  difficulties  which,  until 
late  years,  have  lain  in  the  way  of  peaceful  and  convenient 
travelling,  ought  not  to  have  great  weight  assigned  to  them 
among  the  other  causes  of  the  temper  of  the  century  ; but  be 
that  as  it  may,  if  you  will  examine  the  whole  range  of  its  lit- 
erature— keeping  this  point  in  view — I am  well  persuaded 
that  you  will  be  struck  most  forcibly  by  the  strange  deadness 
to  the  higher  sources  of  landscape  sublimity  which  is  mingled 
with  the  morbid  pastoralism.  The  love  of  fresh  air  and  green 
grass  forced  itself  upon  the  animal  natures  of  men  ; but  that 
of  the  sublimer  features  of  scenery  had  no  place  in  minds 
whose  chief  powers  had  been  repressed  by  the  formalisms  of 
the  age.  And  although  in  the  second-rate  writers  continually, 
and  in  the  first-rate  ones  occasionally,  you  find  an  affectation 
of  interest  in  mountains,  clouds,  and  forests,  yet  whenever 
they  write  from  their  heart,  you  will  find  an  utter  absence  of 
feeling  respecting  anything  beyond  gardens  and  grass.  Ex- 
amine, for  instance,  the  novels  of  Smollett,  Fielding,  and 
Sterne,  the  comedies  of  Moliere,  and  the  writings  of  Johnson 
and  Addison,  and  I do  not  think  you  will  find  a single  expres- 
sion of  true  delight  in  sublime  nature  in  any  one  of  them. 
Perhaps  Sterne’s  “ Sentimental  Journey,”  in  its  total  absence 
of  sentiment  on  any  subject  but  humanity,  and  its  entire  want 
of  notice  of  anything  at  Geneva,  which  might  not  as  well  have 
been  seen  at  Coxwold,  is  the  most  striking  instance  I could 
give  you  ; and  if  you  compare  with  this  negation  of  feeling 
on  one  side,  the  interludes  of  Moliere  in  which  shepherds  and 
shepherdesses  are  introduced  in  court  dress,  you  will  have  a 
very  accurate  conception  of  the  general  spirit  of  the  age. 

It  was  in  such  a state  of  society  that  the  landscape  of 
Claude,  Gaspar  Poussin,  and  Salvator  Kosa  attained  its 


AND  PAINTING. 


301 


reputation.  It  is  the  complete  expression  on  canvas  of  tho 
spirit  of  the  time.  Claude  embodies  the  foolish  pastoralism, 
Salvator  the  ignorant  terror,  and  Gaspar  the  dull  and  affected 
erudition. 

It  was,  however,  altogether  impossible  that  this  state  of 
things  could  long  continue.  The  age  which  had  buried  itself 
in  formalism  grew  weary  at  last  of  the  restraint ; and  the  ap* 
proach  of  a new  aera  was  marked  by  the  appearance,  and  the 
enthusiastic  reception,  of  writers  who  took  true  delight  in 
those  wild  scenes  of  nature  which  had  so  long  been  despised. 

I think  the  first  two  writers  in  whom  the  symptoms  of  a 
change  are  strongly  manifested  are  Mrs.  Kadcliffe  and  Eous- 
seau ; in  both  of  whom  the  love  of  natural  scenery,  though 
mingled  in  the  one  case  with  what  was  merely  dramatic,  and 
in  the  other  with  much  that  was  pitifully  morbid  or  vicious, 
was  still  itself  genuine,  and  intense,  differing  altogether  in 
character  from  any  sentiments  previously  traceable  in  litera- 
ture. And  then  rapidly  followed  a group  of  writers,  who 
expressed,  in  various  ways,  the  more  powerful  or  more  pure 
feeling  which  had  now  become  one  of  the  strongest  instincts 
of  the  age.  Of  these,  the  principal  is  your  own  Walter  Scott. 
Many  writers,  indeed,  describe  nature  more  minutely  and 
more  profoundly  ; but  none  show  in  higher  intensity  the  pe- 
culiar passion  for  what  is  majestic  or  lovely  in  wild  nature,  to 
which  I am  now  referring.  The  whole  of  the  poem  of  the 
“ Lady  of  the  Lake  ” is  written  with  almost  a boyish  enthu- 
siasm for  rocks,  and  lakes,  and  cataracts ; the  early  novels 
show  the  same  instinct  in  equal  strength  wherever  he  ap- 
proaches Highland  scenery  ; and  the  feeling  is  mingled, 
observe,  with  a most  touching  and  affectionate  appreciation 
of  the  Gothic  architecture,  in  which  alone  he  found  the  ele- 
ments of  natural  beauty  seized  by  art ; so  that,  to  this  day, 
his  descriptions  of  Melrose  and  Holy  Island  Cathedral,  in  the 
“Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  ” and  “ Marmion,”  as  well  as  of 
the  ideal  abbeys  in  the  “Monastery”  and  “ Antiquary,”  to- 
gether with  those  of  Caerlaverock  and  Lochleven  Castles  in 
“ Guy  Mannering  ” and  “ The  Abbot,”  remain  the  staple  pos- 
sessions and  text-books  of  all  travellers,  not  so  much  for  theii 


302 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


beauty  or  accuracy,  as  for  their  exactly  expressing  that  degree 
of  feeling  with  which  most  men  in  this  century  can  sympathise. 

Together  with  Scott  appeared  the  group  of  poets, — Byron, 
Wordsworth,  Keats,  Shelley,  and,  finally,  Tennyson, — differing 
widely  in  moral  principles  and  spiritual  temper,  but  all  agree  - 
ing more  or  less  in  this  love  for  natural  sceneiy. 

Now,  you  will  ask  me — and  you  will  ask  me  most  reason- 
ably— how  this  love  of  nature  in  modern  days  can  be  con- 
nected with  Christianity,  seeing  it  is  as  strong  in  the  infidel 
Shelley  as  in  the  sacred  Wordsworth.  Yes,  and  it  is  found  in 
far  worse  men  than  Shelley.  Shelley  was  an  honest  unbeliever, 
and  a man  of  warm  affections  ; but  this  new  love  of  nature  is 
found  in  the  most  reckless  and  unprincipled  of  the  French 
novelists, — in  Eugene  Sue,  in  Dumas,  in  George  Sand, — and 
that  intensely.  How  is  this  ? Simply  because  the  feeling  is 
reactionary  ; and,  in  this  phase  of  it,  common  to  the  diseased 
mind  as*  well  as  to  the  healthy  one.  A man  dying  in  the  fever 
of  intemperance  will  cry  out  for  water  and  that  with  a bitterer 
thirst  than  a man  whose  healthy  frame  naturally  delights  in 
the  mountain  spring  more  than  in  the  wine  cup.  The  water 
is  not  dishonoured  by  the  thirst  of  the  diseased,  nor  is  nature 
dishonoured  by  the  love  of  the  unworthy.  That  love  is,  per- 
haps, the  only  saving  element  in  their  minds  ; and  it  still 
remains  an  indisputable  truth  that  the  love  of  nature  is  a 
characteristic  of  the  Christian  heart,  just  as  the  hunger  for 
healthy  food  is  characteristic  of  the  healthy  frame. 

In  order  to  meet  this  new  feeling  for  nature,  there  necessa- 
rily arose  a new  school  of  landscape  painting.  That  school, 
like  the  literature  to  which  it  corresponded,  had  many  weak 
and  vicious  elements  mixed  with  its  noble  ones ; it  had  its 
Mrs.  Radcliffes  and  Rousseaus,  as  well  as  its  Wordsworths  ; 
but,  on  the  whole,  the  feeling  with  which  Robson  drew  moun- 
tains, and  Prout  architecture,  with  which  Fielding  draws 
moors,  and  Stanfield  sea— is  altogether  pure,  true,  and  pre- 
cious, as  compared  with  that  which  suggested  the  landscape 
of  the  seventeenth  century. 

Now  observe,  how  simple  the  whole  subject  becomes. 
You  have,  first,  your  great  ancient  landscape  divided  into  its 


AND  PAINTING. 


303 


three  periods — Giottesque,  Leonardesque,  Titianesque.  Then 
you  have  a great  gap,  full  of  nonentities  and  abortions ; a 
gulph  of  foolishness,  into  the  bottom  of  which  you  may  throw 
Claude  and  Salvator,  neither  of  them  deserving  to  give  a name 
to  anything.  Call  it  “pastoral”  landscape,  “giiarda  epassa,” 
and  then  you  have,  lastty,  the  pure,  wholesome,  simple,  mod“ 
ern  landscape.  You  want  a name  for  that : I will  give  you 
one  in  a moment ; for  the  whole  character  and  power  of  that 
landscape  is  originally  based  on  the  work  of  one  man. 

Joseph  Mallord  William  Turner  was  born  in  Maiden  Lane, 
London,  about  eighty  years  ago.  The  register  of  his  birth 
was  burned,  and  his  age  at  his  death  could  only  be  arrived  at 
by  conjecture.  He  was  the  son  of  a barber  ; and  his  father 
intended  him,  very  properly,  for  his  own  profession.  The 
bent  of  the  boy  was,  however,  soon  manifested,  as  is  always 
the  case  in  children  of  extraordinary  genius,  too  strongly  to 
be  resisted,  and  a sketch  of  a coat  of  arms  on  a silver  salver, 
made  while  his  father  was  shaving  a customer,  obtained  for 
him,  in  reluctant  compliance  with  the  admiring  customer’s 
advice,  the  permission  to  follow  art  as  a profession. 

He  had,  of  course,  the  usual  difficulties  of  young  artists  to 
encounter,  and  they  were  then  far  greater  than  they  are  now. 
But  Turner  differed  from  most  men  in  this, — that  he  was  al- 
ways willing  to  take  anything  to  do  that  came  in  his  way. 
He  did  not  shut  himself  up  in  a garret  to  produce  unsaleable 
works  of  “high  art,”  and  starve,  or  lose  his  senses.  He  hired 
himself  out  every  evening  to  wash  in  skies  in  Indian  ink,  on 
other  people’s  drawings,  as  many  as  he  could,  at  half-a-crown 
a-night,  getting  his  supper  into  the  bargain.  “ What  could  I 
have  done  better  ? ” he  said  afterwards  : “it  was  first-rate 
practice.”  Then  he  took  to  illustrating  guide-books  and  al- 
manacks, and  anything  that  wanted  cheap  frontispieces.  The 
Oxford  Almanack,  published  on  a single  sheet,  with  a copper- 
plate at  the  to[)  of  it,  consisting  of  a “ View  ” — you  perhaps, 
some  of  you,  know  the  kind  of  print  characteristic  of  the  last 
century,  under  which  the  word  “View”  is  always  printed  in 
large  letters,  with  a dedication,  obsequious  to  the  very  dust, 
to  the  Grand  Signior  of  the  neighbourhood. — Well,  this  Al- 


304 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


manack  had  always  such  a view  of  some  Oxford  College  at  the 
top  of  it,  dedicated,  I think,  always  to  the  head  of  the  Col- 
lege ; and  it  owed  this,  its  principal  decoration,  to  Turner  for 
many  years.  I have  myself  two  careful  drawings  of  some  old 
seals,  made  by  him  for  a local  book  on  the  antiquities  of 
AVhalley  Abbey.  And  there  was  hardly  a gentleman’s  seat  of 
any  importance  in  England,  towards  the  close  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, of  which  you  will  not  find  some  rude  engraving  in  the 
local  publications  of  the  time,  inscribed  with  the  simple  name 
“ W.  Turner.” 

There  was  another  great  difference  between  Turner  and 
other  men.  In  doing  these  drawings  for  the  commonest  pub- 
lications of  the  day,  and  for  a remuneration  altogether  con- 
temptible, he  never  did  his  work  badly  because  he  thought  it 
beneath  him,  or  because  he  was  ill-paid.  There  does  not 
exist  such  a thing  as  a slovenly  drawing  by  Turner.  With 
what  people  were  willing  to  give  him  for  his  work  he  was  con- 
tent ; but  he  considered  that  work  in  its  relation  to  himself, 
not  in  its  relation  to  the  purchaser.  He  took  a poor  price, 
that  he  might  live  ; but  he  made  noble  drawings,  that  he  might 
learn.  Of  course  some  are  slighter  than  others,  and  they  vary 
in  their  materials  ; those  executed  with  pencil  and  Indian  ink 
being  never  finished  to  the  degree  of  those  which  are  executed 
in  colour.  But  he  is  never  careless.  According  to  the  time 
and  means  at  his  disposal,  he  always  did  his  best.  He  never 
let  a drawing  leave  his  hands  without  having  made  a step  in 
advance,  and  having  done  better  in  it  than  he  had  ever  done 
before  ; and  there  is  no  important  drawing  of  the  period  which 
is  not  executed  with  a total  disregard  of  time  and  price,  and 
which  was  not,  even  then,  worth  four  or  five  times  what 
Turner  received  for  it. 

Even  without  genius,  a man  who  thus  felt  and  thus  la- 
boured was  sure  to  do  great  things  ; though  it  is  seldom  that, 
without  great  genius,  men  either  thus  feel  or  thus  labour. 
Turner  was  as  far  beyond  all  other  men  in  intellect  as  in  indus- 
try ; and  his  advance  in  power  and  grasp  of  thought  was  as 
steady  as  the  increasing  light  of  sunrise. 

His  reputation  was  soon  so  far  established  that  he  was  able 


AND  PAINTING. 


305 


to  devote  himself  to  more  consistent  study.  He  never  ap- 
pears literally  to  have  copied  any  picture  ; but  whenever  any 
master  interested  him,  or  was  of  so  established  a reputation 
that  he  thought  it  necessary  to  study  him,  he  painted  pictures 
of  his  own  subjects  in  the  style  of  that  master,  until  he  felt 
himself  able  to  rival  his  exellencies,  whatever  they  were. 
There  are  thus  multitudes  of  pictures  by  Turner  which  are 
direct  imitations  of  other  masters  ; especially  of  Claude,  Wil- 
son, Loutherbourg,  Caspar  Poussin,  Vandevelde,  Cuyp,  and 
Eembrandt.  It  has  been  argued  by  Mr.  Leslie  that,  because 
Turner  thus  in  his  early  years  imitated  many  of  the  old  mas- 
ters, therefore  he  must  to  the  end  of  his  life  have  considered 
them  greater  than  himself.  The  nonsequitu?'  is  obCous.  I trust 
there  are  few  men  so  unhappy  as  never  to  have  learned  any- 
thing from  their  inferiors  ; and  I fear  there  are  few  men  so  wise 
as  never  to  have  imitated  anything  but  what  was  deserving  of 
imitation.  The  young  Turner,  indeed,  would  have  been  more 
than  mortal  if,  in  a period  utterly  devoid  of  all  healthy  exam- 
ples of  landscape  art,  he  had  been  able  at  once  to  see  his  way 
to  the  attainment  of  his  ultimate  ends  ; or  if,  seeing  it,  he  had 
felt  himself  at  once  strong  enough  to  defy  the  authority  of 
every  painter  and  connoisseur  whose  style  had  formed  the 
taste  of  the  public,  or  wLose  dicta  directed  their  patronage. 

But  the  period  when  he  both  felt  and  resolved  to  assert  his 
own  superiority  was  indicated  with  perfect  clearness,  by  his 
publishing  a series  of  engravings,  which  were  nothing  else 
than  direct  challenges  to  Claude — then  the  landscape  painter 
supposed  to  be  the  greatest  in  the  w^orld — upon  his  own 
ground  and  his  own  terms.  You  are  probably  all  aware  that 
the  studies  made  by  Claude  for  his  pictures,  and  kept  by  him 
under  the  name  of  the  “ Liber  Veritatis,”  were  for  the  most 
part  made  with  pen  and  ink,  washed  over  with  a brown  tint ; 
and  that  these  drawings  have  been  carefully  fac-similed  and 
published  in  the  form  of  mezzotint  engravings,  long  supposed 
to  be  models  of  taste  in  landscape  composition.  In  order  to 
provoke  comparison  between  Claude  and  himself.  Turner  pub- 
lished a series  of  engravings,  called  the  ‘‘Liber  Studiorum,” 
executed  in  exactly  the  same  manner  as  these  drawings  of 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


30() 

Claude, — an  etching  representing  what  was  done  with  the 
pen,  while  mezzotint  stood  for  colour.  You  see  the  notable 
23ublicity  of  this  challenge.  Had  he  confined  himself  to  pict- 
ures in  his  trial  of  skill  with  Claude,  it  would  only  have  been 
in  the  gallery  or  the  palace  that  the  comparison  could  have 
been  instituted  ; but  now  it  is  in  the  power  of  all  w'ho  are  in- 
terested in  the  matter  to  make  it  at  their  ease.* 

Now,  what  Turner  did  in  contest  with  Claude,  he  did  with 
every  other  then-known  master  of  landscape,  each  in  his  turn. 
He  challenged  and  vanquished,  each  in  his  own  peculiar  field, 
Vandevelde  on  the  sea,  Salvator  among  rocks,  and  Cuyp  on 
Lowland  rivers  ; and,  having  done  this,  set  himself  to  paint 
the  natural  scenery  of  skies,  mountains,  and  lakes,  which,  until 
his  time,  had  never  been  so  much  as  attempted. 

He  thus,  in  the  extent  of  his  sphere,  far  surpassed  even 
Titian  and  Leonardo,  the  great  men  of  the  earlier  schools. 
In  their  foreground  work  neither  Titian  nor  Leonardo  could 
be  excelled  ; but  Titian  and  Leonardo  were  thoroughly  con- 
ventional in  all  hut  their  foregrounds.  Turner  was  equally 
gi'eat  in  all  the  elements  of  landscape,  and  it  is  on  him,  and 
on  his  daring  additions  to  the  received  schemes  of  landscape 
art,  that  all  modern  landscape  has  been  founded.  You  Avill 
never  meet  any  truly  great  living  landscape  painter  who  will 
not  at  once  frankly  confess  his  obligations  to  Turner,  not, 
observe,  as  having  copied  him,  but  as  having  been  led  by 
Turner  to  look  in  nature  for  what  he  would  otherwise  either 
not  have  discerned,  or  discerning,  not  have  dared  to  reju’esent. 

Turner,  therefore,  was  the  first  man  who  presented  us  with 
the  type  of  perfect  landscape  art : and  the  richness  of  that 

* When  this  Lecture  was  delivered,  an  enlarged  copy  of  a portion  of 
one  of  these  studies  by  Claude  was  set  beside  a similarly  magnified  por- 
tion of  one  by  Turner.  It  was  impossible,  without  much  increasing  the 
cost  of  the  publication,  to  prepare  two  mezzotint  engravings  with  the 
care  requisite  for  this  purpose  ; and  the  portion  of  the  Lecture  relating 
to  these  examples  is  therefore  omitted.  It  is  however  in  the  power  of 
every  reader  to  procure  one  or  more  plates  of  each  series ; and  to  judge 
for  himself  whether  the  conclusion  of  Turner’s  superiority,  which  is 
Assumed  in  the  next  sentence  of  the  text,  be  a just  one  or  not- 


AND  PAINTING. 


307 


art,  with  which  you  are  at  present  surrounded,  and  which 
enables  you  to  open  your  walls  as  it  were  into  so  many  win- 
dows, through  which  you  can  see  whatever  has  charmed  you 
in  the  fairest  scenery  of  your  country,  you  will  do  well  to 
remember  as  Turneresque. 

So  then  you  have  these  live  periods  to  recollect — you  will 
have  no  difficulty,  I trust,  in  doing  so, — the  periods  of  Giotto, 
Leonardo,  Titian,  pastoralism,  and  Turner. 

But  Turner’s  work  is  yet  only  begun.  His  greatness  is,  as 
yet,  altogether  denied  by  many  ; and  to  the  full,  felt  by  very 
few.  But  every  day  that  he  lies  in  his  grave  will  bring  some 
new  acknowledgement  of  his  power  ; and  through  those  eyes, 
now  filled  with  dust,  generations  yet  unborn  will  learn  to  be- 
hold the  light  of  nature. 

You  have  some  ground  to-night  to  accuse  me  of  dogmatism. 
I can  bring  no  proof  before  you  of  what  I so  boldly  assert. 
But  I would  not  have  accepted  your  invitation  to  address  you, 
unless  I had  felt  that  I had  a right  to  be,  in  this  matter,  dog- 
matic. I did  not  come  here  to  tell  you  of  in}^  beliefs  or  my 
conjectures  ; I came  to  tell  you  the  truth  which  I have  given 
fifteen  years  of  my  life  to  ascertain,  that  this  man,  this  Turner, 
of  whom  you  have  known  so  little  while  he  was  living  among 
you,  will  one  day  take  his  place  beside  Shakspeare  and  Veru- 
1am,  in  the  annals  of  the  light  of  England. 

Yes  : beside  Shakspeare  and  Verulam,  a third  star  in  that 
central  constellation,  round  which,  in  the  astronomy  of  in- 
tellect, all  other  stars  make  their  circuit.  By  Shakspeare, 
humanity  was  unsealed  to  you  ; by  Yerulam  the  2:)7lnciples  of 
nature ; and  by  Turner,  her  aspect.  All  these  were  sent  to 
unlock  one  of  the  gates  of  light,  and  to  unlock  it  for  the  first 
time.  But  of  all  the  three,  though  not  the  greatest.  Turner 
was  the  most  unprecedented  in  his  work.  Bacon  did  what 
Aristotle  had  attempted  ; Shakspeare  did  perfectly  what  iEs- 
chylus  did  partially  ; but  none  before  Turner  had  lifted  the 
veil  from  the  face  of  nature  ; the  majesty  of  the  hills  and 
forests  had  received  no  interpretation,  and  the  clouds  passed 
unrecorded  from  the  face  of  the  heaven  which  they  adorued, 
and  of  the  earth  to  which  they  ministered. 


308 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


And  now  let  me  tell  yon  something  of  his  personal  charao 
ter.  You  have  heard  him  spoken  of  as  ill-natured,  and  jeah 
ous  of  his  brother  artists.  I will  tell  you  how  jealous  he  was. 
I knew  him  for  ten  years,  and  during  that  time  had  much 
familiar  intercourse  with  him.  I never  once  heard  him  say  an 
unkind  thing  of  a brother  artist,  I never  once  heard  him  find  a 
fault  with  another  man’s  work.  I could  say  this  of  no  other 
artist  whom  I have  ever  known. 

But  I will  add  a piece  of  evidence  on  this  matter  of  peculiar 
force.  Probably  many  here  have  read  a book  which  has  been 
lately  published,  to  my  mind  one  of  extreme  interest  and  value, 
the  life  of  the  unhappy  artist,  Benjamin  Haydon.  Whatever 
may  have  been  his  faults,  I believe  no  person  can  read  his 
journal  without  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  his  heart  was 
honest,  and  that  he  does  not  wilfully  misrepresent  any  fact,  or 
any  person.  Even  supposing  otherwise,  the  expression  I am 
going  to  quote  to  you  would  have  all  the  more  force,  because, 
as  you  know,  Haydon  passed  his  whole  life  in  war  with  the 
Boyal  Academy,  of  which  Turner  was  one  of  the  most  influen- 
tial members.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  most  violent  ex- 
pressions of  exultation  at  one  of  his  victories  over  the  Academy, 
he  draws  back  suddenly  with  these  words  : — “ But  Turner 
behaved  well,  and  did  me  justice.” 

I will  give  you  however  besides,  two  plain  facts  illustrative 
of  Turner’s  “ jealousy.” 

You  have,  perhaps  not  many  of  you,  heard  of  a painter  of 
the  name  of  Bird  ; I do  not  myself  know  his  works,  but  Turner 
saw  some  merit  in  them  : and  when  Bird  first  sent  a picture 
to  the  Academy,  for  exhibition,  Turner  was  on  the  hanging 
committee.  Bird’s  picture  had  great  merit ; but  no  place  for 
it  could  be  found.  Turner  pleaded  hard  for  it.  No,  the 
thing  was  impossible.  Turner  sat  down  and  looked  at  Bird’s 
picture  a long  time  ; then  insisted  that  a place  must  be  found 
for  it.  He  was  still  met  by  the  assertion  of  impracticability. 
He  said  no  more,  but  took  down  one  of  his  own  pictures,  sent 
it  out  of  the  Academy,  and  hung  Bird’s  in  its  place. 

Match  that,  if  you  can,  among  the  annals  of  hanging  com- 
mittees. But  he  could  do  nobler  things  than  this. 


AND  PAINTING. 


800 


When  Turner’s  picture  of  Cologne  was  exhibited  in  the  year 
1820,  it  was  hung  between  two  portraits,  by  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence,  of  Lady  Wallscourt,  and  Lady  Eobert  Manners. 

The  sky  of  Turner’s  picture  was  exceedingly  bright,  and  it 
had  a most  injurious  effect  on  the  colour  of  the  two  portraits. 
Lawrence  naturally  felt  mortified,  and  complained  openly  of 
the  position  of  his  pictures.  You  are  aware  that  artists  were 
at  that  time  permitted  to  retouch  their  pictures  on  the  walls 
of  the  Academy.  On  the  morning  of  the  opening  of  the  ex- 
hibition, at  the  private  view,  a friend  of  Turner’s  who  had 
seen  the  Cologne  in  all  its  splendour,  led  a group  of  expec- 
tant critics  up  to  the  picture.  He  started  back  from  it  in 
consternation.  The  golden  sky  had  changed  to  a dun  colour. 
He  ran  up  to  Turner,  who  was  in  another  part  part  of  the 
room.  “Turner,  what  have  you  been  doing  to  your  picture?” 
“Oh,”  muttered  Turner,  in  a low  voice,  “poor  Lawrence  was 
so  unhappy.  It’s  only  lamp  black.  It’ll  all  wash  off  after  the 
exhibition  ! ” He  had  actually  passed  a wash  of  lamp  black 
in  water  colour  over  the  whole  sky,  and  utterly  spoiled  his 
picture  for  the  time,  and  so  left  it  through  the  exhibition,  lest 
it  should  hurt  Lawrences. 

You  may  easily  find  instances  of  self-sacrifice  where  men 
have  strong  motives,  and  where  large  benefits  are  to  be  con- 
ferred by  the  effort,  or  general  admiration  obtained  by  it ; 
but  of  pure,  unselfish,  and  perfect  generosity,  showing  itself 
in  a matter  of  minor  interest,  and  when  few  could  be  aware 
of  the  sacrifice  made,  you  will  not  easily  find  such  another  ex- 
ample as  this. 

Thus  much  for  his  jealousy  of  his  brother-artists.  You 
have  also  heard  much  of  his  niggardliness  in  money  transac- 
tions. A great  part  of  what  you  have  heard  is  perfectly  true, 
allowing  for  the  exaggeration  which  always  takes  place  in  the 
accounts  of  an  eccentric  character.  But  there  are  other  parts 
of  Turner’s  conduct  of  which  you  have  never  heard ; and 
which,  if  truly  reported,  would  set  his  niggardhness  in  a very 
different  light.  Every  person  from  whom  Turner  exacted  a 
due  shilling,  proclaimed  the  exaction  far  and  wide ; but  the 
persons  to  whom  Turner  gave  hundreds  of  pounds  were  pre- 


310 


LIWTURES  ON  ARC  HIT  EOT  U RE 


vented,  by  their  “ delicacy,”  from  reporting  the  kindness  oi 
their  benefactor.  I may,  however,  perhaps,  be  permitted  to 
acquaint  you  with  one  circumstance  of  this  nature,  creditable 
alike  to  both  parties  concerned. 

At  the  death  of  a poor  drawing  master,  Mr.  Wells,  whom 
Turner  had  long  known,  he  was  deeply  affected,  and  lent 
money  to  the  widow  until  a large  sum  had  accumulated.  She 
w'as  both  honest  and  grateful,  and  after  a long  period  was 
happy  enough  to  be  able  to  return  to  her  benefactor  the  whole 
sum  she  had  received  from  him.  She  waited  on  him  wdth  it ; 
but  Turner  kept  his  hands  in  his  pocket.  “Keep  it,”  he  said 
“and  send  your  children  to  school,  and  to  church.”  He  said 
this  in  bitterness  ; he  had  himself  been  sent  to  neither. 

Well,  but  you  will  answer  to  me,  we  have  heard  Turner  all 
our  lives  stigmatised  as  brutal,  and  uncharitable,  and  selfish, 
and  miserly.  How  are  we  to  understand  these  opposing  state- 
ments ? 

Easily.  I have  told  you  truly  what  Turner  was.  You  have 
often  heard  what  to  most  people  he  aj^peared  to  be.  Imagine 
what  it  'was  for  a man  to  live  seventy  years  in  this  hard  world, 
with  the  kindest  heart  and  the  noblest  intellect  of  his  time, 
and  never  to  meet  with  a single  word  or  ray  of  sympathy,  until 
he  felt  himself  sinking  into  the  grave.  From  the  time  he  knew 
his  true  greatness  all  the  world  was  turned  against  him  : he 
held  his  own  ; but  it  could  not  be  without  roughness  of  bear- 
ing, and  hardening  of  the  temper,  if  not  of  the  heart.  No  one 
understood  him,  no  one  trusted  him,  and  every  one  cried  out 
against  him.  Imagine,  any  of  you,  the  effect  upon  your  own 
minds,  if  every  voice  that  you  heard  from  the  human  beings 
around  you  were  raised,  year  after  year,  through  all  your  lives, 
only  in  condemnation  of  your  efforts,  and  denial  of  your  suc- 
cess. This  may  be  borne,  and  borne  easily,  by  men  who 
have  fixed  religious  principles,  or  supporting  domestic  ties. 
But  Turner  had  no  one  to  teach  him  in  his  youth,  and  no  one 
to  love  him  in  his  old  age.  Respect  and  affection,  if  they 
came  at  all,  came  unbelieved,  or  came  too  late.  Naturally 
irritable,  though  kind, — naturally  suspicious,  though  gener- 
ous,— the  gold  gradually  became  dim,  and  the  most  fine  gold 


AND  PAINTING. 


:ni 

changed,  or,  if  not  changed,  overcast  and  clonded.  The  deep 
heart  was  still  beating,  but  it  was  beneath  a dark  and  melan- 
choly mail  between  whose  joints,  however,  sometimes  the 
slightest  arrows  found  entrance,  and  power  of  giving  pain. 
He  received  no  consolation  in  his  last  years,  nor  in  his  death. 
Cut  off  in  great  part  from  all  society, — first,  by  labour,  and  at 
last  by  sickness, — hunted  to  his  grave  by  the  malignities  of 
small  critics,  and  the  jealousies  of  hopeless  rivalry,  he  died  in 
the  house  of  a stranger, — one  companion  of  his  life,  and  one 
only,  staying  with  him  to  the  last.  The  window  of  his  death- 
chamber  was  turned  towards  the  west,  and  the  sun  shone  up- 
on his  face  in  its  setting  and  rested  there,  as  he  expired. 


LECTURE  IV. 

PRE-RAPHAELITISM. 

The  subject  on  which  I would  desire  to  engage  your  at- 
tion  this  evening,  is  the  nature  and  probable  result  of  a cer- 
tain schism  which  took  place  a few  years  ago  among  our 
British  artists. 

This  schism,  or  rather  the  heresy  which  led  to  it,  as  you 
are  probably  aware,  was  introduced  by  a small  number  of 
very  young  men ; and  consists  mainly  in  the  assertion  that 
the  principles  on  which  art  has  been  taught  for  these  three 
hundred  years  back  are  essentially  wrong,  and  that  the  prin- 
ciples which  ought  to  guide  us  are  those  which  prevailed 
before  the  time  of  Raphael ; in  adopting  which,  therefore,  as 
their  guides,  these  young  men,  as  a sort  of  bond  of  unity 
among  themselves,  took  the  unfortunate  and  somewhat  ludi- 
crous name  of  “ Pre-Raphaelite  ” brethren. 

You  must  all  be  aware  that  this  heresy  has  been  opposed 
with  all  the  influence  and  all  the  bitterness  of  art  and 
criticism  ; but  that  in  spite  of  these  the.  heresy  has  gained 
ground,  and  the  pictures  painted  on  these  new  principles  have 
obtained  a most  extensive  popularity.  These  circumstances 


312 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


are  sufficiently  singular,  but  their  importance  is  greater  even 
than  their  singularity  ; and  your  time  will  certainly  not  be 
wasted  in  devoting  an  hour  to  an  inquiry  into  the  true  nature 
of  this  movement. 

I shall,  first,  therefore,  endeavour  to  state  to  you  what  the 
real  difference  is  between  the  principles  of  art  before  and 
after  Raphael’s  time,  and  then  to  ascertain,  with  you,  how 
far  these  young  men  truly  have  understood  the  difference, 
and  what  may  be  hoped  or  feared  from  the  effort  they  are 
making. 

First,  then.  What  is  the  real  difference  between  the  prin- 
ciples on  wFich  art  has  been  pursued  before  and  since 
Raphael?  You  must  be  aware,  that  the  principal  ground  on 
which  the  Pre-Raiffiaelites  have  been  attacked,  is  the  charge 
that  they  wish  to  bring  us  back  to  a time  of  darkness  and 
ignorance,  when  the  principles  of  drawing,  and  of  art  in 
general,  were  comparatively  unknown  ; and  this  attack,  there- 
fore, is  entirely  founded  on  the  assumption  that,  although  for 
some  unaccountable  reason  we  cannot  at  present  produce 
artists  altogether  equal  to  Raphael,  yet  that  we  are  on  the 
whole  in  a state  of  greater  illumination  than,  at  all  events, 
any  artists  who  preceded  Raphael ; so  that  we  consider  our- 
selves entitled  to  look  down  upon  them,  and  to  say  that,  all 
things  considered,  they  did  some  wonderful  things  for  their 
time  ; but  that,  as  for  comparing  the  art  of  Giotto  to  that  of 
Wilkie  or  Edwin  Landseer,  it  would  be  perfectly  ridiculous, 
— the  one  being  a mere  infant  in  his  profession,  and  the 
others  accomplished  workmen. 

Now,  that  this  progress  has  in  some  things  taken  place  is 
perfectly  true  ; but  it  is  true  also  that  this  progxess  is  by  no 
means  the  main  thing  to  be  noticed  respecting  ancient  and 
modern  art ; that  there  are  other  circumstances,  connected 
with  the  change  from  one  to  the  other,  immeasurably  more 
important,  and  which,  until  very  lately,  have  been  altogether 
lost  sight  of. 

The  fact  is,  that  modern  art  is  not  so  much  distinguished 
from  old  art  by  greater  skill,  as  by  a radical  change  in 
temper.  The  art  of  this  day  is  not  merely  a more  knowing 


AND  PAINTING. 


313 


art  than  that  of  the  thirteenth  century, — it  is  altogether 
another  art.  Between  the  two  there  is  a great  gulj^h,  a dis- 
tinction for  ever  ineffaceable.  The  change  from  one  to  the 
other  was  not  that  of  the  child  into  the  man,  as  we  usually 
consider  it ; it  was  that  of  the  chrysalis  into  the  butterfly. 
There  w\as  an  entire  change  in  the  habits,  food,  method  of 
existence,  and  heart  of  the  whole  creature.  That  we  know 
more  than  thirteenth-century  people  is  perfectly  true  ; but 
that  is  not  the  essential  difference  between  us  and  them.  We 
are  different  kind  of  creatures  from  them, — as  different  as 
moths  are  different  from  caterpillars  ; and  different  in  a 
certain  broad  and  vast  sense,  which  I shall  try  this  evening 
to  explain  and  prove  to  you  ; — different  not  merely  in  this  or 
that  result  of  minor  circumstances, — not  as  you  are  different 
from  people  who  never  saw  a locomotive  engine,  or  a High- 
lander of  this  century  from  a Highlander  of  1745  ; — different 
in  a far  broader  and  mightier  sense  than  that,  in  a sense  so  great 
and  clear,  that  we  are  enabled  to  separate  all  the  Christian  na- 
tions and  tongues  of  the  early  time  from  those  of  the  latter 
time,  and  speak  of  them  in  one  group  as  the  kingdoms  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  There  is  an  infinite  significance  in  that  term, 
which  I want  you  to  dwell  uj^on  and  work  out ; it  is  a term 
which  we  use  in  a dim  consciousness  of  the  truth,  but  without 
fully  penetrating  into  that  of  which  we  are  conscious.  I want 
to  deepen  and  make  clear  to  you  this  consciousness  that  the 
world  has  had  essentially  a Trinity  of  ages — the  Classical 
Age,  the  Middle  Age,  the  Modern  Age  ; each  of  these  embra- 
cing races  and  individuals  of  apparently  enormous  separation 
in  kind,  but  united  in  the  spirit  of  their  age, — the  Classical 
Age  having  its  Egyptians  and  Ninevites,  Greeks  and  Romans, 
— the  Middle  Age  having  its  Goths  and  Franks,  Lombards  and 
Italians, — the  Modern  Ages  having  their  French  and  English, 
Spaniards  and  Germans ; but  all  these  distinctions  being  in 
each  case  subordinate  to  the  mightier  and  broader  distinction, 
between  Classicalism,  Medicemlism,  and  Modernism. 

Now  our  object  to-night  is  indeed  only  to  inquire  into  a 
matter  of  art ; but  we  cannot  do  so  properly  until  we  consider 
this  art  in  its  relation  to  the  inner  spirit  of  the  age  in  which 


LECTUUE8  ON  AliCIIlTECTURE 


3U 

it  exists  ; and  by  doing  so  we  shall  not  only  arrive  at  the  most 
just  conclusions  respecting  our  present  subject,  but  we  shall 
obtain  the  means  of  arriving  at  just  conclusions  respecting 
many  other  things. 

Now  the  division  of  time  which  the  Pre-Raphaelites  have 
ado2:>ted,  in  choosing  Raphael  as  a man  whose  works  mark 
the  separation  between  Medisevalism  and  Modernism,  is  per- 
fectly accurate.  It  has  been  accepted  as  such  by  aU  their 
opponents. 

You  have,  then,  the  three  periods  : Classicalism,  extending 
to  the  fall  of  the  Roman  empire  ; Medisevalism,  extending 
from  that  fall  to  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century  ; and  Mod- 
ernism, thenceforward  to  our  days. 

And  in  examining  into  the  spirit  of  these  three  epochs, 
observe,  I don’t  mean  to  compare  their  bad  men, — I don’t 
mean  to  take  Tiberius  as  a type  of  Classicalism,  nor  Ezzelin 
as  a type  of  Medioevalism,  nor  Robespierre  as  a type  of  Mod- 
ernism. Bad  men  are  like  each  other  in  all  epochs  ; and 
in  the  Roman,  the  Paduan,  or  the  Parisian,  sensuality  and 
cruelty  admit  of  little  distinction  in  the  manners  of  their 
manifestation.  But  among  men  comparatively  virtuous,  it  is 
important  to  study  the  j^hases  of  character ; and  it  is  into 
these  only  that  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  inquire.  Consider 
therefore,  first,  the  essential  difference  in  character  between 
three  of  the  most  devoted  military  heroes  whom  the  three 
great  epochs  of  the  world  have  produced, — all  three  devoted 
to  the  service  of  their  country, — all  of  them  dying  therein. 
I mean,  Leonidas  in  the  Classical  period,  St.  Louis  in  the 
Mediaeval  period,  and  Lord  Nelson  in  the  Modern  period. 

Leonidas  had  the  most  rigid  sense  of  duty,  and  died  with 
the  most  perfect  faith  in  the  gods  of  his  country,  fulfilling 
the  accepted  prophecy  of  his  death.  St.  Louis  had  the  most 
rigid  sense  of  duty,  and  the  most  perfect  faith  in  Christ 
Nelson  had  the  most  rigid  sense  of  duty,  and 

You  must  supply  my  pause  with  your  charity. 

Now  you  do  not  suppose  that  the  main  difference  between 
Leonidas  and  Nelson  lay  in  the  modern  inventions  at  the 
command  of  the  one,  as  compared  with  the  imperfect  military 


AND  PAINTING. 


315 


fiistruments  possessed  by  the  other.  They  were  not  essen- 
tially different,  in  that  the  one  fought  with  lances  and  the 
other  with  guns.  But  they  were  essentially  different  in  the 
whole  tone  of  their  religious  belief. 

By  this  instance  you  may  be  partially  prepared  for  the  bold 
statement  I am  going  to  make  to  you,  as  to  the  change  which 
constitutes  modernism.  I said  just  now  that  it  was  like  that 
of  the  worm  to  the  butterfly.  But  the  changes  which  God 
causes  in  his  lower  creatures  are  almost  always  from  worse 
to  better,  while  the  changes  which  God  allows  man  to  make 
in  himself  are  very  often  quite  the  other  way  ; like  Adam’s 
neAV  arrangement  of  his  nature.  And  in  saying  that  this  last 
change  was  like  that  of  a chrysalis,  I meant  only  in  the  com- 
pleteness of  it,  not  in  the  tendency  of  it.  Instead  of  from 
the  w’^orm  to  the  butterfly,  it  is  very  possible  it  may  have  been 
from  the  butterfly  to  the  worm. 

Have  patience  with  me  for  a moment  after  I tell  you  wdiat 
I believe  it  to  have  been,  and  give  me  a little  time  to  justify 
my  words. 

I say  that  Classicalism  began,  wherever  civilisation  began, 
wdth  Pagan  Faith.  Medisevalism  began,  and  continued,  wher- 
ever civilisation  began  and  continued  to  confess  Christ.  And, 
lastly,  Modernism  began  and  continues,  wherever  civilisation 
began  and  continues  to  deny  Christ. 

You  are  startled,  but  give  me  a moment  to  explain.  What, 
you  would  say  to  me,  do  you  mean  to  tell  us  that  we  deny 
Christ  ? we  who  are  essentially  modern  in  every  one  of  our 
principles  and  feelings,  and  yet  all  of  us  professing  believers 
in  Christ,  and  we  trust  most  of  us  true  ones?  I answer.  So 
far  as  w^e  are  believers  indeed,  we  are  one  with  the  faithful  of 
all  times, — one  with  the  classical  believer  of  Athens  and 
Ephesus,  and  one  with  the  mediaeval  believer  of  the  banks  of 
the  Bhone  and  the  valleys  of  the  Monte  Viso.  But  so  far  as, 
in  various  strange  waj^s,  some  in  great  and  some  in  small 
things,  we  deny  this  belief,  in  so  far  we  are  essentially  infected 
with  this  spirit,  which  I call  modernism. 

For  observe,  the  change  of  wdiich  I speak  has  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  the  Keformation,  or  with  any  of  its  effects, 


316 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


It  is  a far  broader  tiling  than  the  Reformation.  It  is  a change 
wliich  has  taken  place,  not  only  in  reformed  England,  and 
reformed  Scotland  ; but  in  unreformed  France,  in  unreformed 
Italy,  ill  unreformed  Austria.  I class  honest  Protestants  and 
honest  Roman  Catholics  for  the  present  together,  under  the 
general  term  Christians ; if  you  object  to  their  being  so 
classed  together,  I pray  your  pardon,  but  allow  me  to  do  so 
at  present,  for  the  sake  of  perspicuity,  if  for  nothing  else  ; 
and  so  classing  them,  I say  that  a change  took  place,  about 
the  time  of  Raphael,  in  the  spirit  of  Roman  Catholics  and 
Protestants  both ; and  that  change  consisted  in  the  denial  of 
their  religious  belief,  at  least  in  the  external  and  trivial  affairs 
of  life,  and  often  in  far  more  serious  things. 

For  instance,  hear  this  direction  to  an  upholsterer  of  the 
early  thirteenth  century.  Under  the  commands  of  the  sheriff 
of  Wiltshire,  he  is  thus  ordered  to  make  some  alterations  in 
a room  for  Henry  the  Tliird.  He  is  to  “wainscot  the  King’s 
lower  chamber,  and  to  paint  that  wainscot  of  a green  colour, 
and  to  put  a border  to  it,  and  to  cause  the  heads  of  kings  and 
queens  to  be  painted  on  the  borders  ; and  to  paint  on  the 
walls  of  the  King’s  upper  chamber  the  story  of  St.  Margaret, 
Virgin,  and  the  four  Evangelists,  and  to  paint  the  wainscot 
of  the  same  chamber  of  a green  colour,  spotted  with  gold.” 

Again,  the  sheriff  of  Wiltshire  is  ordered  to  “put  two 
small  glass  windows  in  the  chamber  of  Edward  the  King’s 
son  ; and  put  a glass  window  in  the  chamber  of  our  Queen  at 
Clarendon  ; and  in  the  same  window  cause  to  be  painted  a 
Mary  with  her  Child,  and  at  the  feet  of  the  said  Mary,  a 
queen  Avith  clasped  hands.” 

Again,  the  sheriff  of  Southampton  is  ordered  to  “paint  the 
tablet  beside  the  King’s  bed,  with  the  figures  of  the  guards 
of  the  bed  of  Solomon,  and  to  glaze  with  white  glass  the  win- 
dows in  the  King’s  great  Hall  at  Southampton,  and  cause  the 
history  of  Lazarus  and  Dives  to  be  painted  in  the  same.” 

And  so  on  ; I need  not  multiply  instances.  You  see  that 
in  all  these  cases,  the  furniture  of  the  King’s  house  is  made 

* Liberate  Kolls,  preserved  in  the  Tower  of  London,  and  quoted  by 
Mr.  Tuvner  in  his  History  of  the  Domestic  Architecture  of  England. 


AND  PAINTING. 


317 


to  confess  liis  Christianity.  It  may  be  imperfect  and  impure 
Christianity,  but  such  as  it  might  be,  it  was  all  that  men  had 
then  to  live  and  die  by  ; and  you  see  there  was  not  a pane 
of  glass  in  their  windows,  nor  a pallet  by  their  bedside  that 
did  not  confess  and  j^roclaim  it.  Now,  when  you  go  home  to 
your  own  rooms,  supposing  them  to  be  richly  decorated  at 
all,  examine  what  that  decoration  consists  of.  You  will 
find  Cupids,  Graces,  Floras,  Dianas,  Jupiters,  Junos.  But  you 
will  not  find,  except  in  the  form  of  an  engraving,  bought  prin* 
cipally  for  its  artistic  beauty,  either  Christ,  or  the  Virgin,  or 
Lazarus  and  Dives.  And  if  a thousand  years  hence,  any  curb 
ous  investigator  were  to  dig  up  the  ruins  of  Edinburgh,  and 
not  know  your  history,  he  would  think  you  had  all  been  born 
heathens.  Now  that,  so  far  as  it  goes,  is  denying  Christ ; it 
is  pure  Modernism. 

No,  you  will  answer  me,  “you  misunderstand  and  calum- 
niate us.  We  do  not,  indeed,  choose  to  have  Dives  and  Laz- 
arus on  our  windows  ; but  that  is  not  because  we  are  moderns, 
but  because  we  are  Protestants,  and  do  not  like  religious  im- 
agery.” Pardon  me  : that  is  not  the  reason.  Go  into  any 
fashionable  lady’s  boudoir  in  Paris,  and  see  if  you  will  find 
Dives  and  Lazarus  there.  You  will  find,  indeed,  either  that 
she  has  her  private  chapel,  or  that  she  has  a crucifix  in  her 
dressing  room ; but  for  the  general  decoratfon  of  the 
house,  it  is  all  composed  of  Apollos  and  Muses,  just  as  it  is 
here. 

Again.  What  do  you  suppose  was  the  substance  of  good 
education,  the  education  of  a knight,  in  the  Middle  Ages  ? 
What  was  taught  to  a boy  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  learn  any- 
thing ? First,  to  keep  under  his  body,  and  bring  it  into  sub- 
jection and  perfect  strength  ; then  to  take  Christ  for  his  cap- 
tain, to  live  as  always  in  his  presence  and,  finally,  to  do  his 
devoir — mark  the  word — to  all  men  ? Now,  consider  first,  the 
difference  in  their  influence  over  the  armies  of  France,  be- 
tween the  ancient  word  “devoir,”  and  modern  word  “gloire.” 
And,  again,  ask  yourselves  what  you  expect  your  own  chil- 
dren to  be  taught  at  your  great  schools  and  universities.  Is 
it  Christian  history,  or  the  histories  of  Pan  and  Silenus? 


818 


LECTURES  ON  ARCUITECTURE 


Your  present  education,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  denies 
Christ,  and  that  is  intensely  and  peculiarly  modernism. 

Or,  again,  what  do  you  suppose  was  the  proclaimed  and 
understood  principle  of  all  Christian  (jovermnents  in  the 
middle  ages  ? I do  not  say  it  was  a principle  acted  up  to,  or 
that  the  cunning  and  violence  of  wicked  men  had  not  too 
often  their  full  sway  then,  as  now  ; but  on  what  principles 
were  that  cunning  and  violence,  so  far  as  was  possible,  re- 
strained ? By  the  confessed  fear  of  God,  and  confessed  author- 
ity of  his  law.  You  will  find  that  all  treaties,  laws,  transac- 
tions whatsoever,  in  the  middle  ages,  are  based  on  a confession 
of  Christianity  as  the  leading  rule  of  life  ; that  a text  of  Script- 
ure is  held,  in  all  public  assemblies,  strong  enough  to  be  set 
against  an  appearance  of  expediency ; and  although,  in  the 
end,  the  expediency  might  triumph,  j^et  it  was  never  without 
a distinct  allowance  of  Christian  principle,  as  an  efficient  ele- 
ment in  the  consultation.  Whatever  error  might  be  commit- 
ted, at  least  Christ  was  openly  confessed.  Now  what  is  the 
custom  of  your  British  Parliament  in  these  days  ? You  know 
that  nothing  would  excite  greater  manifestations  of  contemj^t 
and  disgust  than  the  slightest  attempt  to  introduce  the  au- 
thority of  Scripture  in  a political  consultation.  That  is  deny- 
ing Christ.  It  is  intensely  and  peculiarly  modernism. 

It  W'Oul(>be  easy  to  go  on  showing  you  this  same  thing  in 
many  more  instances ; but  my  business  to-night  is  to  show 
you  its  full  effect  in  one  thing  only,  namely,  in  art,  and  I 
must  come  straightway  to  that,  as  I have  little  enough  time. 
This,  then,  is  the  great  and  broad  fact  wliich  distinguishes 
modern  art  from  old  art ; that  all  ancient  art  was  religious, 
and  all  modern  art  is  ’profane.  Once  more,  your  patience  for 
an  instant.  I sa}^,  all  ancient  art  was  religious ; that  is  to  say, 
religion  was  its  first  object ; private  luxury  or  pleasure  its 
second.  I say,  all  modern  art  is  profane  ; that  is,  private  lux- 
ury or  pleasure  is  its  first  object ; religion  its  second.  Now 
you  all  know,  that  anything  which  makes  religion  its  second 
object,  makes  religion  no  object.  God  will  put  up  with  a 
great  many  things  in  the  human  heart,  but  there  is  one  thing 
he  will  not  put  u^)  with  in  it — a second  place.  He  who  offers 


AND  PAINTING. 


319 


God  a second  place,  offers  him  no  place.  And  there  is  an- 
other mighty  truth  which  you  all  know,  that  he  who  makes 
religion  his  first  object,  makes  it  his  whole  object : he  has  no 
other  work  in  the  world  than  God’s  work.  Therefore  I do 
not  say  that  ancient  art  was  mo7'e  religious  than  modern  art 
There  is  no  question  of  degree  in  this  matter.  Ancient  art 
was  religious  art ; modern  art  is  profane  art ; and  between 
the  two  the  distinction  is  as  firm  as  between  light  and  dark- 
ness. 

Now,  do  not  let  what  I say  be  encumbered  in  your  minds 
with  the  objection,  that  you  think  art  ought  not  to  be  brought 
into  the  service  of  religion.  That  is  not  the  question  at 
present — do  not  agitate  it.  The  simple  fact  is,  that  old  art 
ims  brought  into  that  service,  and  received  therein  a peculiar 
form  ; that  modern  art  is  not  brought  into  that  service,  and 
has  received  in  consequence  another  form;  that  this  is  the 
great  distinction  between  mediaeval  and  modern  art ; and  from 
that  are  clearly  deducible  all  other  essential  differences  be- 
tween them.  That  is  the  point  I wish  to  show  you,  and  of 
that  there  can  be  no  dispute.  Whether  or  not  Christianity 
be  the  purer  for  lacking  the  service  of  art,  is  disputable — and 
I do  not  mean  now  to  begin  the  dispute  ; but  that  art  is  the 
impurer  for  not  being  in  the  service  of  Christianity,  is  indisput- 
able, and  that  is  the  main  point  I have  now  to  do  with. 

Perhaps  there  are  some  of  you  here  who  would  not  allow 
that  the  religion  of  the  thirteenth  century  was  Christianity.  Be 
it  so,  still  is  the  statement  true,  which  is  all  that  is  necessary 
for  me  now  to  prove,  that  art  was  great  because  it  was  de- 
voted to  such  religion  as  then  existed.  Grant  that  Roman 
Catholicism  was  not  Christianity — grant  it,  if  you  will,  to  be 
the  same  thing  as  old  heathenism, — and  still  I say  to  you, 
whatever  it  was,  men  lived  and  died  by  it,  the  ruhng  thought 
of  all  their  thoughts  ; and  just  as  classical  art  was  greatest  in 
building  to  its  gods,  so  mediseval  art  was  great  in  building  to 
its  gods,  and  modern  art  is  not  great,  because  it  builds  to  710 
God.  You  have  for  instance,  in  your  Edinburgh  Library, 
a Bible  of  the  thirteenth  century,  the  Latin  Bible,  commonly 
known  as  the  Vulgate.  It  contains  the  Old  and  New  Testaments, 


LECTUllES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


complete,  besides  the  books  of  Maccabees,  the  Wisdom  o! 
Solomon,  tlie  books  of  Judith,  Baruch,  and  Tobit.  The  whole 
is  written  in  the  most  l^eautiful  black-letter  hand,  and'  each 
book  begins  with  an  illuminated  letter,  containing  three  or 
four  figures,  illustrative  of  the  book  which  it  begins.  Now, 
whether  this  were  done  in  the  service  of  true  Christianity  or 
not,  the  simple  fact  is,  that  here  is  a man’s  lifetime  taken  up  in 
writing  and  ornamenting  a Bible,  as  the  sole  end  of  his  art ; and 
that  doing  this  either  in  a book,  or  on  a wall,  was  the  common 
artist’s  life  at  the  time  ; that  the  constant  Bible  reading  and 
Bible  thinking  which  this  work  involved,  made  a man  serious 
and  thoughtful,  and  a good  workman,  because  he  was  always 
expressing  those  feelings  which,  whether  right  or  wrong,  were 
the  groundwork  of  his  whole  being.  Now,  about  the  year 
1500,  this  entire  system  was  changed.  Instead  of  the  life  of 
Christ,  men  had,  for  the  most  part,  to  paint  the  lives  of  Bac- 
chus and  Venus  ; and  if  you  walk  through  any  public  gallery 
of  pictures  by  the  “ great  masters,”  as  they  are  called,  you 
will  indeed  find  here  and  there  what  is  called  a Holy  Family, 
painted  for  the  sake  of  drawing  pretty  children,  or  a pretty 
woman  ; but  for  the  most  part  you  will  find  nothing  but 
Floras,  Pomonas,  Satyrs,  Graces,  Bacchanals,  and  Banditti. 
Now  you  will  not  declare — you  cannot  believe, — that  Angelico 
painting  the  life  of  Christ,  Benozzo  painting  the  life  of  Abra- 
ham, Ghirlandajo  painting  the  life  of  the  Virgin,  Giotto  paint- 
ing the  life  of  St.  Francis,  w^ere  worse  employed,  or  likely  to 
produce  a less  healthy  art,  than  Titian  painting  the  loves  of 
Venus  and  Adonis,  than  Correggio  painting  the  naked  Antiope, 
than  Salvator  painting  the  slaughters  of  the  thirty  years’  war  ? 
If  you  will  not  let  me  call  the  one  kind  of  labour  Christian,  and 
the  other  unchristian,  at  least  you  will  let  me  call  the  one  moral, 
and  the  other  immoral,  and  that  is  all  I ask  you  to  admit. 

Now  observe,  hitherto  I have  been  telling  j'ou  what  you 
may  feel  inclined  to  doubt  or  dispute  ; and  I must  leave  you 
to  consider  the  subject  at  your  leisure.  But  henceforward  I 
tell  you  plain  facts,  which  admit  neither  of  doubt  nor  dispute 
by  any  one  who  will  take  the  pains  to  acquaint  himself  with 
their  subject-matter. 


AND  DAINTINO. 


321 


When  the  entire  purpose  of  art  was  moral  teaching,  it  nat- 
urally took  truth  for  its  first  object,  and  beauty,  and  the 
pleasure  resulting  from  beauty,  only  for  its  second.  But 
when  it  lost  all  purpose  of  moral  teaching,  it  as  naturally 
took  beauty  for  its  first  object,  and  truth  for  its  second. 

That  is  to  say,  in  all  they  did,  the  old  artists  endeavoured 
in  one  way  or  another,  to  express  the  real  facts  of  the  subject 
or  event,  this  being  their  chief  business  : and  the  question 
they  first  asked  themselves  was  always,  how  Avould  this  thing, 
or  that,  actually  have  occurred  ? what  would  this  person,  or 
that,  have  done  under  the  circumstances  ? and  then,  having 
formed  their  conception,  they  work  it  out  with  only  a second- 
ary regard  to  grace,  or  beauty,  while  a modern  painter  inva- 
riably thinks  of  the  grace  and  beauty  of  his  work  first,  and 
unites  afterwards  as  much  truth  as  he  can  with  its  conven- 
tional graces.  I will  give  you  a single  strong  instance  to 
make  my  meaning  plainer.  In  Orcagna’s  great  fresco  of  the 
Triumph  of  Death,  one  of  the  incidents  is  that  three  kings,* 
when  out  hunting,  are  met  by  a spirit,  which,  desiring  them 
to  follow  it,  leads  them  to  a churchyard,  and  points  out  to 
them,  in  open  coffins,  three  bodies  of  kings  such  as  them- 
selves, in  the  last  stages  of  corruption.  Now  a modern  artist, 
representing  this,  would  have  endeavoured  dimly  and  faintly 

* This  incident  is  not  of  Orcagna’s  invention  ; it  is  variously  repre- 
sented in  much  earlier  art.  There  is  a curious  and  graphic  drawing  of 
it,  circa  1800,  in  the  MS.  Arundel  83.  Brit.  Mus. , in  which  the  three 
dead  persons  are  walking,  and  are  met  by  three  queens,  who  severally 
utter  the  sentences, 

“ Ich  am  aferd.” 

“ Lo,  wdiet  ich  se  ? ” 

“ Me  thinketh  hit  beth  develes  thre.” 

To  which  the  dead  bodies  answer, — 

“ Ich  wes  wel  fair.” 

“ Such  schelt  ou  be.” 

“ For  Codes  love,  be  wer  by  me.” 

It  is  curious,  that  though  the  dresses  of  the  living  persons,  and  the 
“ I was  well  fair”  of  the  first  dead  speaker,  seem  to  mark  them  dis- 
tinctly to  be  women,  some  longer  legends  below  are  headed  “ primua 
rex  mortuus,”  &c. 


LECTURES  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


322 

to  suggest  the  appearance  of  the  dead  bodies,  and  would  have 
made,  or  attempted  to  make,  the  countenances  of  the  three 
kings  variously  and  solemnly  expressive  of  thought.  This 
would  be  in  his,  or  our,  view,  a poetical  and  tasteful  treat- 
ment of  the  subject.  But  Orcagna  disdains  both  poetry  and 
taste  ; he  wants  the  fads  only  ; he  wishes  to  give  the  si)ecta- 
tor  the  same  lesson  that  the  kings  had  ; and  therefore,  in- 
stead of  concealing  the  dead  bodies,  he  paints  them  with  the 
most  fearful  detail.  And  then,  he  does  not  consider  ’svhat 
the  three  kings  might  most  gracefully  do.  Ho  considers  only 
what  they  actually  in  all  probability  would  have  done.  He 
makes  them  looking  at  the  coffins  with  a startled  stare,  and 
one  holding  his  nose.  This  is  an  extreme  instance  ; but  you 
are  not  to  suppose  it  is  because  Orcagna  had  naturally  a 
coarse  or  prosaic  mind.  Where  he  felt  that  thoughtfulness 
and  beauty  could  j)i'operly  be  introduced,  as  in  his  circles  of 
saints  and  prophets,  no  painter  of  the  middle  ages  is  so  grand. 
I can  give  you  no  better  j)i'oof  of  this,  than  the  one  fact  that 
Michael  Angelo  borrowed  from  him  openly, — borrowed  from 
him  in  the  principal  work  which  he  ever  executed,  the  Last 
Judgment,  and  borrowed  from  him  the  princi23al  figure  in 
that  work.  But  it  is  just  because  Orcagna  was  so  firmly  and 
unscru2)ulously  true,  that  he  had  the  power  of  being  so  great 
when  he  chose.  His  arrow  went  straight  to  the  mark.  It 
was  not  that  he  did  not  love  beauty,  but  he  loved  truth  first. 

So  it  was  with  all  the  men  of  that  time.  No  2^‘T.inters  ever 
had  more  j^ower  of  conceiving  graceful  form,  or  more  jiro- 
fouud  devotion  to  the  beautiful ; but  all  these  gifts  and  affec- 
tions are  kej^t  sternly  subordinate  to  their  moral  2:)ur2)ose  ; 
and,  so  far  as  their  j^owers  and  knowledge  w^ent,  they  either 
j^ainted  from  nature  things  as  they  were,  or  from  imagination 
things  as  they  must  have  been. 

I do  not  mean  that  the}^  reached  any  imitative  resemblance 
to  nature.  They  had  neither  skill  to  do  it,  nor  care  to  do  it. 
Their  art  was  conventional  and  imjoerfect,  but  they  considered 
it  only  as  a language  wherein  to  conve}"  the  knowledge  of  cer- 
tain facts  ; it  was  j^erfect  enough  for  that ; and  though  always 
reaching  on  to  greater  attainments,  they  never  suffered  their 


AND  PAINTING. 


32;] 

imperfections  to  disturb  and  clieck  them  in  their  immediate 
purposes.  And  this  mode  of  treating  all  subjects  was  per- 
sisted in  by  the  greatest  men  until  the  close  of  the  fifteenth 
century. 

Now  so  justly  have  the  Pre-Raphaelites  chosen  their  time 
and  name,  that  the  great  change  which  clouds  the  career  of 
mediaeval  art  was  affected,  not  only  in  Raphael’s  time,  but  by 
Raphael’s  own  practice,  and  by  his  practice  in  the  very  centre 
of  his  available  life. 

You  remember,  doubtless,  wdiat  high  ground  we  have  for 
placing  the  beginning  of  human  intellectual  strength  at  about 
the  age  of  twelve  years.^  Assume,  therefore,  this  period  for 
the  beginning  of  Raphael’s  strength.  He  died  at  thirty-seven. 
And  in  his  twenty-fifth  year,  one  half-year  only  passed  the  pre- 
cise centre  of  his  available  life,  he  was  sent  for  to  Rome,  to 
decorate  the  Vatican  for  Pope  Julius  H,  and  having  until  that 
time  worked  exclusively  in  the  ancient  and  stern  mediseval 
manner,  he,  in  the  first  chamber  which  he  decorated  in  that 
palace,  wrote  upon  its  wall  the  Mene,  Tekel,  Upharsin,  of  the 
Arts  of  Christianity. 

And  he  wrote  it  thus  : On  one  wall  of  that  chamber  he 
placed  a picture  of  the  World  or  Kingdom  of  Theology,  pre- 
sided over  by  Christ.  And  on  the  side  wall  of  that  same 
chamber  he  placed  the  World  or  Kingdom  of  Poetry,  pre- 
sided over  by  Apollo.  And  from  that  spot,  and  from  that 
hour,  the  intellect  and  the  art  of  Italy  date  their  degradation. 

Observe,  however,  the  significance  of  this  fact  is  not  in  the 
mere  use  of  the  figure  of  the  heathen  god  to  indicate  the 
domain  of  poetry.  Such  a symbolical  use  had  been  made  of 
the  figures  of  heathen  deities  in  the  best  times  of  Christian 
art.  But  it  is  in  the  fact,  that  being  called  to  Rome  especially 
to  adorn  the  palace  of  the  so-called  head  of  the  church,  and 
called  as  the  chief  representative  of  the  Christian  artists  of  his 
time,  Raphael  had  neither  religion  nor  originality  enough  to 
trace  the  spirit  of  poetry  and  the  spirit  of  philosophy  to  the 
inspiration  of  the  true  God,  as  well  as  that  of  theology  ; but 
that,  on  the  contrary,  he  elevated  the  creations  of  fancy  on  the 
* Luke  ii.  42,  49. 


LECrURER  ON  ARCHITECTURE 


one  ivaJI,  io  the  same  rank  as  the  object  of  faith  upon  the  other  \ 
that  ill  deliberate,  balanced,  opposition  to  the  Eock  of  the 
j\loiint  Zion,  he  reared  the  rock  of  Parnassus,  and  the  rock  of 
the  Acropolis  ; that,  among  the  masters  of  poetry  we  find  him 
enthroning  Petrarch  and  Pindar,  but  not  Isaiah  nor  David,  and 
for  lords  over  the  domain  of  philosophy  we  find  the  masters 
of  the  school  of  Athens,  but  neither  of  those  greater  masters 
by  the  last  of  whom  that  school  was  rebuked, — those  who 
received  their  wisdom  from  heaven  itself,  in  the  vision  of 
Gibeon,'*  and  the  lightning  of  Damascus. 

The  doom  of  the  arts  of  Eurojoe  went  forth  from  that  cham- 
ber, and  it  w^as  brought  about  in  great  part  by  the  very  ex- 
cellencies of  the  man  who  had  thus  marked  the  commence- 
ment of  decline.  The  perfection  of  execution  and  the  beauty 
of  feature  which  were  attained  in  his  works,  and  in  those  of  his 
great  contemporaries,  rendered  finish  of  execution  and  beauty 
of  form  the  chief  objects  of  all  artists  ; and  thenceforward  exe^ 
cution  was  looked  for  rather  than  thought,  and  beauty  rather 
than  veracity. 

And  as  I told  you,  these  are  the  two  secondary  causes  of 
the  decline  of  art ; the  first  being  the  loss  of  moral  purpose. 
Pray  note  them  clearly.  In  mediseval  art,  thought  is  the  first 
thing,  execution  the  second  ; in  modern  art  execution  is  the 
first  thing,  and  thought  the  second.  And  again,  in  mediaeval 
art,  truth  is  first,  beauty  second  ; in  modern  art,  beauty  is  first, 
truth  second.  The  mediaeval  principles  led  up  to  Eaphael, 
and  the  modern  principles  lead  down  from  him. 

Now,  first,  let  me  give  you  a familiar  illustration  of  the 
difference  with  respect  to  execution.  Suppose  you  have  to 
teach  two  children  drawing,  one  thoroughly  clever  and  active- 
minded,  the  other  dull  and  slow  ; and  you  put  before  them 
Jullien’s  chalk  studies  of  heads — etudes  d deux  crayons — and 
desire  them  to  be  copied.  The  dull  child  will  slowly  do  your 
bidding,  blacken  his  paper  and  rub  it  white  again,  and  pa- 
tiently and  painfully,  in  the  course  of  three  or  four  years,  at- 
tain to  the  performance  of  a chalk  head,  not  much  worse 
than  his  original,  but  still  of  less  value  than  the  paper  it  is 
* 1 Kings,  iii.  5. 


AND  PAINTING. 


325 


drawn  upon.  But  the  clever  child  will  not,  or  will  only  by 
force,  consent  to  this  discipline.  He  finds  other  means  oi 
expressing  himself  with  his  pencil  somehow  or  another  ; and 
preseiitl}^  you  find  his  paper  covered  with  sketches  of  his 
grandfather  and  grandmother,  and  uncles  and  cousins, — 
sketches  of  the  room,  and  the  house,  and  the  cat,  and  the 
dog,  and  the  country  outside,  and  everything  in  the  world  he 
can  set  his  eyes  on  ; and  he  gets  on,  and  even  his  child’s 
work  has  a value  in  it — a truth  which  makes  it  worth  keep- 
ing ; no  one  knows  how  precious,  perhaps,  that  portrait  of 
his  grandfather  may  be,  if  any  one  has  but  the  sense  to  keep 
it  till  the  time  when  the  old  man  can  be  seen  no  more  up  the 
lawn,  nor  by  the  wood.  That  child  is  working  in  the  middle- 
age  spirit — the  other  in  the  modern  spirit. 

But  there  is  something  still  more  striking  in  the  evils 
which  have  resulted  from  the  modern  regardlessness  of  truth. 
Consider,  for  instance,  its  effect  on  what  is  called  historical 
paiuting.  What  do  you  at  present  mean  by  historical  paint- 
ing ? Now-a-days,  it  means  the  endeavouring,  by  the  power 
of  imagination,  to  portray  some  historical  event  of  past  days. 
But  in  the  middle  ages,  it  meant  representing  the  acts  of  their 
own  days  ; and  that  is  the  only  historical  painting  worth  a 
straw.  Of  all  the  'wastes  of  time  and  sense  which  modernism 
has  invented — and  they  are  many — none  are  so  ridiculous  as 
this  endeavour  to  represent  past  history.  What  do  you  sup- 
pose our  descendants  will  care  for  our  imaginations  of  the 
events  of  former  days  ? Suppose  the  Greeks,  instead  of  rep- 
resenting their  own  warriors  as  they  fought  at  Marathon,  had 
left  us  nothing  but  their  imaginations  of  Egyptian  battles  ; 
and  suppose  the  Italians,  in  like  manner,  instead  of  portraits 
of  Can  Grande  and  Dante,  or  of  Leo  the  Tenth  and  Eaphael, 
had  left  us  nothing  but  imaginary  portraits  of  Pericles  and 
Miltiades  ? What  fools  we  should  have  thought  them  ! how 
bitterly  we  should  have  been  provoked  with  their  folly  ! And 
that  is  precisely  what  our  descendants  will  feel  towards  us, 
so  far  as  our  grand  historical  and  classical  schools  are  con- 
cerned. Wliat  do  we  care,  they  will  say,  what  those  nine- 
teenth century  people  fancied  about  Greek  and  Roman  his- 


320 


LECTURES  ON  ARGIIITECTURE 


tory  ! If  they  had  left  us  a few  plain  and  rational  sculpture 
and  pictures  of  their  own  battles,  and  their  own  men,  in  their 
everyday  dress,  we  should  have  thanked  them.  Well,  but, 
you  will  say,  we  have  left  them  portraits  of  our  great  men, 
and  paintings  of  our  great  battles.  Yes,  you  have  indeed, 
and  that  is  the  only  historical  painting  that  you  either  have 
or  can  have  ; but  you  don’t  call  that  historical  painting.  You 
don’t  thank  the  men  who  do  it ; you  look  down  upon  them 
and  dissuade  them  from  it,  and  tell  them  they  don’t  belong 
to  the  grand  schools.  And  yet  they  are  the  only  true  his- 
torical painters,  and  the  only  men  who  will  produce  any  effect 
on  their  own  generation,  or  on  any  other.  Wilkie  was  an 
historical  painter,  Chantrey  an  historical  sculptor,  because 
they  painted,  or  carved,  the  veritable  things  and  men  they 
saw,  not  men  and  things  as  they  believed  they  might  have 
been,  or  should  have  been.  But  no  one  tells  such  men  they 
are  historical  painters,  and  they  are  discontented  with  what 
they  do  ; and  poor  Wilkie  must  needs  travel  to  see  the  grand 
school,  and  imitate  the  grand  school,  and  ruin  himself.  And 
you  have  had  multitudes  of  other  painters  ruined,  from  the 
beginning,  by  that  grand  school.  There  w^as  Etty,  naturally 
as  good  a painter  as  ever  lived,  but  no  one  told  him  what  to 
paint,  and  he  studied  the  antique,  and  the  grand  schools,  and 
painted  dances  of  nymphs  in  red  and  yellow  shawls  to  the  end 
of  his  days.  Much  good  may  they  do  you  ! He  is  gone  to 
the  grave,  a lost  mind.  There  was  Flaxman,  another  natu- 
rally great  man,  with  as  true  an  eye  for  nature  as  Kaphael, — 
he  stumbles  over  the  blocks  of  the  antique  statues — wanders 
in  the  dark  valley  of  their  ruins  to  the  end  of  his  days.  He 
has  left  you  a few  outlines  of  muscular  men  straddling  and 
frowning  behind  round  shields.  Much  good  may  they  do 
you  ! Another  lost  mind.  And  of  those  who  are  lost  iiame- 
lessly,  who  have  not  strength  enough  even  to  make  them- 
selves known,  the  poor  pale  students  who  lie  buried  for  ever 
in  the  abysses  of  the  great  schools,  no  account  can  be  ren- 
dered ; they  are  nmnberless. 

And  the  wonderful  thing  is,  that  of  all  these  men  whom  you 
now  have  come  to  call  the  great  masters,  there  was  not  ono 


AND  PAINTING. 


327 


who  confessedly  did  not  paint  his  own  present  world,  plainly 
and  trul}^  Homer  sang  of  what  he  saw  ; Phidias  carved  what 
he  saw  ; Kapliael  painted  the  men  of  his  own  time  in  their 
own  caps  and  mantles  ; and  every  man  who  has  arisen  to  emi- 
nence in  modern  times  has  done  so  altogether  by  his  working 
in  their  way,  and  doing  the  things  he  saw.  How  did  Eeynolds 
rise?  Not  by  painting  Greek  women,  but  by  painting  the 
glorious  little  living  ladies  this,  and  ladies  that,  of  his  own 
time.  How  did  Hogarth  rise  ? Not  by  painting  Athenian 
follies,  but  London  follies.  Who  are  the  men  who  have  made 
an  impression  upon  you  yourselves, — upon  your  own  age  ? I 
suppose  the  most  popular  painter  of  the  day  is  Landseer.  Do 
you  suppose  he  studied  dogs  and  eagles  out  of  the  Elgin  Mar- 
bles ? And  yet  in  the  very  face  of  these  plain,  incontroverti- 
ble, all-visible  facts,  we  go  on  from  year  to  year  with  the  base 
system  of  Academy  teaching,  in  spite  of  which  every  one  of 
these  men  have  risen  : I say  in  spite  of  the  entire  method  and 
aim  of  our  art-teaching.  It  destroys  the  greater  number  of 
its  pupils  altogether ; it  hinders  and  paralyses  the  greatest. 
There  is  not  a living  painter  whose  eminence  is  not  in  spite  of 
everything  he  has  been  taught  from  his  youth  upwards,  and 
who,  whatever  his  eminence  may  be,  has  not  suffered  much 
injury  in  the  course  of  his  victory.  For  observe  : this  love  of 
what  is  called  ideality  or  beauty  in  preference  to  truth,  oper- 
ates not  only  in  making  us  choose  the  past  rather  than  the 
present  for  our  subjects,  but  it  makes  us  falsify  the  present 
when  we  do  take  it  for  our  subject.  I said  just  now  that  por- 
trait-painters were  historical  painters ; — so  they  are  ; but  not 
good  ones,  because  not  faithful  ones.  The  beginning  and  end 
of  modern  portraiture  is  adulation.  The  painters  cannot  live 
but  by  flattery  ; we  should  desert  them  if  they  spoke  honestly. 
And  therefore  we  can  have  no  good  portraiture ; for  in  the 
striving  after  that  which  is  not  in  their  model,  they  lose  the 
inner  and  deeper  nobleness  Avhich  is  in  their  model.  I saw 
not  long  ago,  for  the  first  time,  the  portrait  of  a man  whom  I 
knew  well, — a young  man,  but  a religious  man, — and  one  who 
had  suffered  much  from  sickness.  The  whole  dignity  of  his 
features  and  person  depended  upon  the  expression  of  serene, 


LECTURES  ON  ARCUITECTUBE 


;J2S 

yet  solemn,  purpose  sustaining  a feeble  frame  ; and  the  painter 
by  way  of  flattering  him,  strengthened  him,  and  made  him 
athletic  in  body,  gay  in  countenance,  idle  in  gesture  ; and  the 
whole  power  and  being  of  the  man  himself  were  lost.  And 
this  is  still  more  the  case  with  our  public  portraits.  You 
liave  a portrait,  for  instance,  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  at  the 
end  of  the  North  Bridge, — one  of  the  thousand  equestrian 
statues  of  Modernism, — studied  from  the  showriders  of  the 
anqdiitheatre,  with  their  horses  on  their  hindlegs  in  the  saw- 
dust.'^ Do  you  suppose  that  was  the  way  the  Duke  sat  when 
your  destinies  depended  on  him  ? when  the  foam  hung  from 
the  lips  of  his  tired  horse,  and  its  wet  limbs  were  dashed  with 
the  bloody  slime  of  the  battlefield,  and  he  himself  sat  anxious 
in  his  quietness,  grieved  in  his  fearlessness,  as  he  watched, 

* I intended  tliis  last  sentence  of  course  to  apply  to  tlie  tliousand  stat- 
ues, not  definitely  to  tlie  one  in  immediate  question,  which,  though 
tainted  with  the  modern  affectation,  and  the  nearest  example  of  it  to 
which  I could  refer  an  Edinburgh  audience,  is  the  work  of  a most  prom- 
ising sculptor  ; and  was  indeed  so  far  executed  on  the  princijdes  as- 
serted in  the  text,  that  the  Duke  gave  Mr.  Steele  a sitting  on  horseback, 
in  order  that  his  mode  of  riding  might  be  accurately  represented.  This, 
however  does  not  render  the  following  remarks  in  the  text  nugatory,  as 
it  may  easily  be  imagined  that  the  action  of  the  Duke,  exhibiting  his 
riding  in  his  own  grounds,  would  be  different  from  his  action,  or  inac- 
tion, when  watching  the  course  of  a battle. 

I must  also  make  a most  definite  exception  in  favour  of  Marochetti, 
who  seems  to  me  a thoroughly  great  sculptor  ; and  whose  statue  of  Coeur 
de  Lion,  though,  according  to  the  principle  just  stated,  not  to  be  consid- 
ered an  Imtoriml  work,  is  an  ideal  work  of  the  highest  beauty  and  value. 
Its  erection  in  front  of  Westminster  Hall  will  tend  more  to  educate  the 
public  eye  and  mind  with  respect  to  art,  than  anything  we  have  done  in 
London  for  centuries. 

St:  ♦ * * * * 

April  21st. — I stop  the  press  in  order  to  insert  the  following  para- 
graph from  to-day’s  Times: — “The  Statue  of  CmuR  De  Lion.— 
Yesterday  morning  a number  of  workmen  were  engaged  in  pulling  down 
the  cast  which  was  placed  in  New  Palace  Yard  of  the  colossal  equestrian 
statue  of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion.  Sir  C.  Barry  was,  we  believe,  opposed 
to  the  cast  remaining  there  any  longer,  and  to  the  putting  up  of  the 
statue  itself  on  the  same  site,  because  it  did  not  harmonize  with  the 
building.  During  the  day  the  horse  and  figure  were  removed,  and  bo' 
fore  night  the  pedestal  was  demolished  and  taken  awiiv-  ” 


AND  PAINTING. 


scytlie-stroke  by  scythe-stroke,  the  gathering  in  of  the  harvest 
of  death  ? You  would  have  done  something  had  you  thus  left 
his  image  in  the  enduring  iron,  but  nothing  now. 

But  the  time  has  at  last  come  for  all  this  to  be  put  an  end 
to  ; and  nothing  can  well  be  more  extraordinary  than  the  way 
in  which  the  men  have  risen  who  are  to  do  it.  Pupils  in  the 
same  schools,  receiving  precisely  the  same  instruction  which 
for  so  long  a time  has  paralysed  every  one  of  our  painters, — = 
these  boys  agree  in  disliking  to  copy  the  antique  statues  set 
before  them.  They  copy  them  as  they  are  bid,  and  they  copy 
them  better  than  any  one  else,  they  carry  off  prize  after  j^rize, 
and  yet  they  hate  their  work.  At  last  they  are  admitted  to 
study  from  the  life  ; they  find  the  life  very  different  from  the 
antique,  and  say  so.  Their  teachers  tell  them  the  antique  is 
the  best,  and  they  mustn’t  cojoy  the  life.  They  agree  among 
themselves  that  they  like  the  life,  and  that  copy  it  they  will. 
They  do  copy  it  faithfully,  and  their  masters  forthwith  de- 
clare them  to  be  lost  men.  Their  fellow-students  hiss  them 
whenever  they  enter  the  room.  They  can’t  hel23  it  ; they  join 
hands  and  tacitly  resist  both  the  hissing  and  the  instruction. 
Accidentally,  a few  prints  of  the  works  of  Giotto,  a few  casts 
from  those  of  Ghiberti,  fall  into  their  hands,  and  they  see  in 
these  something  they  never  saw  before — something  intensely 
and  everlastingly  true.  They  examine  farther  into  the  mat- 
ter ; they  discover  for  themselves  the  greater  part  of  what  I 
have  laid  before  you  to-night ; they  form  themselves  into  a 
body,  and  enter  upon  that  crusade  which  has  hitherto  been 
victorious.  And  which  will  be  absolutely  and  triumj^hantly 
victorious.  The  great  mistake  which  has  hitherto  2)i’evented 
the  2)ublic  mind  from  fully  going  with  them  must  soon  be 
corrected.  That  mistake  was  the  siij^i^osition  that,  instead  of 
wishing  to  recur  to  the  prdictpZes  of  the  early  ages,  these  men 
wished  to  bring  back  the  ignorance  of  the  early  ages.  This 
notion,  grounded  first  on  some  hardness  in  their  earlier 
works,  which  resulted — as  it  must  always  result — from  the 
downright  and  earnest  effort  to  jDaint  nature  as  in  a looking- 
glass,  was  fostered  jiartly  by  the  jealousy  of  their  beaten  com- 
petitors, and  2>artly  by  the  2^ure,  2>erverse,  and  hopeless  ignO'- 


LECTURES  ON  ARCIHrECTURE 


?>'M) 

ranee  of  the  whole  body  of  art-critics,  so  called,  connected 
with  the  press.  No  notion  was  ever  more  baseless  or  more 
ridiculous.  It  was  asserted  that  the  Pre-Raphaelites  did  not 
draw  well,  in  the  face  of  the  fact,  that  the  X)rincipal  member 
of  their  body,  from  the  time  he  entered  the  schools  of  the 
Academy,  had  literally  encumbered  himself  with  the  medals, 
given  as  prizes  for  drawing.  It  w'as  asserted  that  they  did 
not  draw  in  2:)erspective,  by  men  who  themselves  knew  no 
more  of  perspective  than  they  did  of  astrology  ; it  was  as- 
serted that  they  sinned  against  the  appearances  of  nature,  by 
men  who  had  never  drawui  so  much  as  a leaf  or  a blossom 
from  nature  in  their  lives.  And,  lastly,  when  all  these  cal- 
umnies or  absurdities  would  tell  no  more,  and  it  began  to  be 
forced  upon  men’s  unwilling  belief  that  the  style  of  the  Pre- 
Raphaelites  ims  true  and  was  according  to  nature,  the  last 
forgery  invented  respecting  them  is,  that  they  copy  photo- 
graphs. You  observe  how  completely  this  last  piece  of  mal- 
ice defeats  all  the  rest.  It  admits  they  are  true  to  nature, 
though  only  that  it  may  deprive  them  of  all  merit  in  being  so. 
But  it  may  itself  be  at  once  refuted  by  the  bold  challenge  to 
their  opj^onents  to  produce  a Pre-Raphaelite  picture,  or  any- 
thing like  one,  by  themselves  copying  a photograph. 

Let  me  at  once  clear  your  minds  from  all  these  doubts,  and 
at  once  contradict  all  these  calumnies. 

Pre-Raphaelitism  has  but  one  principle,  that  of  absolute 
uncompromising  truth  in  all  that  it  does,  obtained  by  work- 
ing everything,  down  to  the  most  minute  detail,  from  nat- 
ure, and  from  nature  only.*  Every  Pre-Raphaelite  landscape 
background  is  j^ainted  to  the  last  touch,  in  the  open  air,  from 
the  thing  itself.  Every  Pre-Raphaelite  figure,  however  stud- 
ied in  ex^^ression,  is  a true  jDortrait  of  some  living  person. 

* Or,  where  imagination  is  necessarily  trusted  to,  by  always  endeavour- 
ing to  conceive  a fact  as  it  really  was  likely  to  have  happened,  rather 
than  as  it  most  prettily  might  have  happened.  The  various  membera 
of  the  school  are  not  all  equally  severe  in  carrying  out  its  principles, 
some  of  them  trusting  their  memory  or  fancy  very  far ; only  all  agree- 
ing in  the  effort  to  make  their  memories  so  accurate  as  to  seem  like  por- 
traiture, and  their  fancy  so  probable  as  to  seem  like  memory. 


AND  PATNIING. 


331 


Every  minute  accessory  is  painted  in  the  same  manner.  And 
one  of  tlie  chief  reasons  for  the  violent  opposition  with  which 
the  school  has  been  attacked  by  other  artists,  is  the  enor- 
mous cost  of  care  and  labour  which  such  a system  demands 
from  those  who  adopt  it  in  contradistinction  to  the  present 
slovenl}'"  and  imperfect  st3de. 

This  is  the  main  Pre-Raphaelite  principle.  But  the  battle 
which  its  supporters  have  to  tight  is  a hard  one  ; and  for  that 
battle  they  have  been  fitted  by  a very  peculiar  character. 

You  perceive  that  the  principal  resistance  they  have  to 
make  is  to  that  spurious  beauty,  whose  attractiveness  had 
tempted  men  to  forget,  or  to  despise,  the  more  noble  quality 
of  sincerity  : and  in  order  at  once  to  put  them  beyond  the 
powder  of  temptation  from  this  beauty",  the}"  are,  as  a body, 
characterized  by  a total  absence  of  sensibility  to  the  ordinary 
and  popular  forms  of  artistic  gracefulness  ; while,  to  all  that 
still  lower  kind  of  prettiness,  wdiich  regulates  the  disposition 
of  our  scenes  upon  the  stage,  and  w"hich  appears  in  our  low^er 
art,  as  in  our  annuals,  our  common-place  portraits,  and  statu- 
ary, the  Pre-Raphaelites  are  not  only  dead,  but  they  regard  it 
with  a contempt  and  aversion  approaching  to  disgust.  This 
character  is  absolutely  necessary  to  them  in  the  present  time  ; 
but  it,  of  course,  occasionally  renders  their  work  compara- 
tively unpleasing.  As  the  school  becomes  less  aggressive, 
and  more  authoritative, — which  it  will  do, — they  will  enlist 
into  their  ranks  men  who  will  work,  mainly,  upon  their  prin- 
ciples, and  yet  embrace  more  of  those  characters  which  are 
generally  attractive,  and  this  great  ground  of  offence  will  be 
removed. 

Again  ; you  observe  that,  as  landscape  painters,  their  prin- 
ciples must,  in  great  part,  confine  them  to  mere  foreground 
work  ; and  singularly  enough,  that  they  may  not  be  tempted 
away  from  this  work,  they  have  been  born  with  comparatively 
little  enjoyment  of  those  evanescent  effects  and  distant  sub- 
limities which  nothing  but  the  memory  can  arrest,  and  noth- 
ing but  a daring  conventionalism  portray.  But  for  this  w"ork 
they  are  not  needed.  Turner  had  done  it  before  them  ; he, 
though  his  capacity  embraced  everything,  and  though  he 


332 


LECTURES  ON  ARCniTECTURE 


would  sometimes,  in  liis  foregrounds,  paint  the  spots  upon  a 
dead  ti’out,  and  the  dyes  upon  a l^utterfly’s  wing,  yet  for  the 
most  part  delighting  to  begin  at  that  very  point  where  Pre- 
llaphaelitism  becomes  powerless. 

Lastly.  The  habit  of  constantly  carrying  everything  up  to 
the  utmost  point  of  completion  deadens  the  Pre-Itaphaelites 
in  general  to  the  merits  of  men  who,  with  an  equal  love  of 
truth  up  to  a certain  point,  yet  express  themselves  habitually 
with  speed  and  power,  rather  than  with  finish,  and  give  ab- 
stracts of  truth  rather  than  total  truth.  Probably  to  the  end 
of  time  artists  will  more  or  less  be  divided  into  these  classes, 
and  it  will  be  impossible  to  make  men  like  Millais  understand 
the  merits  of  men  like  Tintoret ; but  this  is  the  more  to  be 
regretted  because  the  Pre-Kaphaelites  have  enormous  powers 
of  imagination,  well  as  of  realisation,  and  do  not  yet  them- 
selves know  of  how  much  they  would  be  capable,  if  they  some- 
times worked  on  a larger  scale,  and  with  a less  laborious  fin- 
ish. 

With  all  their  faults,  their  pictures  are,  since  Turner’s  death, 
thelbest — incomparably  the  best — on  the  walls  of  the  Royal 
Academy  ; and  such  -works  as  Mr.  Hunt’s  Claudio  and  Isabella 
have  never  been  rivalled,  in  some  respects  never  approached, 
at  any  other  period  of  art. 

This  I believe  to  be  a most  candid  statement  of  all  their 
faults  and  all  their  deficiencies  ; not  such,  you  perceive,  as 
are  likely  to  arrest  their  progress.  The  ‘‘magna  est  veritas  ” 
was  never  more  sure  of  accomi^lishment  than  by  these  men. 
Their  adversaries  have  no  chance  with  them.  They  will  grad- 
ually unite  their  influence  with  whatever  is  true  or  powerful 
in  the  reactionary  art  of  other  countries  ; and  on  their  works 
such  a school  will  be  founded  as  shall  justify  the  third  age  of 
the  world’s  civilisation,  and  render  it  as  great  in  creation  as  it  ‘ 
has  been  in  discovery. 

And  now  let  me  remind  you  but  of  one  thing  more.  As 
you  examine  into  the  career  of  historical  painting,  you  will  be 
more  and  more  struck  with  the  fact  I have  this  evening  stated 
to  you, — that  none  was  ever  truly  great  but  that  which  repre- 
sented the  living  forms  and  daily  deeds  of  the  people  among 


AND  PAINTING. 


333 


whom  it  arose  ; — that  all  precious  historical  work  records,  not 
the  past  but  the  present.  Eemember,  therefore,  that  it  is  not 
so  much  in  buying  pictures,  as  in  being  pictures,  that  you  can 
encourage  a noble  school.  The  best  patronage  of  art  is  not 
that  which  seeks  for  the  pleasures  of  sentiment  in  a vague 
ideality,  nor  for  beauty  of  form  in  a marble  image  ; but  that 
which  educates  your  children  into  living  heroes,  and  binds 
down  the  flights  and  the  fondnesses  of  the  heart  into  practical 
duty  and  faithful  devotion. 


334 


LEGTU11E8  ON  AlWIIITECTUUE 


ADDE^TDA 


TO 

THE  FOUETH  LECTUEE. 


I COULD  not  enter,  in  a popular  lecture,  upon  one  intricate 
and  difficult  question,  closely  connected  with  the  subject  of 
Pre-Eaphaelitism — namely,  the  relation  of  invention  to  obser- 
vation ; and  composition  to  imitation.  It  is  still  less  a question 
to  be  discussed  in  the  compass  of  a note  ; and  I must  defer 
all  careful  examination  of  it  to  a future  opportunity.  Never- 
theless, it  is  impossible  to  leave  altogether  unanswered  the 
first  objection  which  is  now  most  commonly  made  to  the  Pre- 
Eaphaelite  work,  namely,  that  the  principle  of  it  seems  ad- 
verse to  all  exertion  of  imaginative  power.  Indeed,  such  an 
objection  sounds  strangely  on  the  lips  of  a public  who  have 
been  in  the  habit  of  purchasing  for  hundreds  of  pounds,  small 
squares  of  Dutch  canvas,  containing  only  servile  imitations 
of  the  coarsest  nature.  It  is  strange  that  an  imitation  of  a 
cow’s  head  by  Paul  Potter,  or  of  an  old  woman’s  by  Ostade, 
or  of  a scene  of  tavern  debauchery  by  Teniers,  should  be  pur- 
chased and  proclaimed  for  high  art,  while  the  rendering  of 
the  most  noble  expressions  of  human  feeling  in  Hunt’s 
Isabella,  or  of  the  loveliest  English  landscape,  haunted  by  sor- 
row, in  Millais’  Ophelia,  should  be  declared  “ puerile.”  But, 
strange  though  the  utterance  of  it  be,  there  is  some  weight 
in  the  objection.  It  is  true  that  so  long  as  the  Pre-Eaphael- 
ites  only  paint  from  nature,  however  carefully  selected  and 
grouped,  their  pictures  can  never  have  the  characters  of  the 
highest  class  of  compositions.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
shallow  and  conventional  arrangements  commonly  called 
“ compositions  ” by  the  artists  of  the  present  day,  are  in- 


AND  DA  IN  TING. 


335 


finitely  farther  from  great  art  than  the  most  patient  work 
of  the  Pre-Raphaelites.  That  work  is,  even  in  its  humblest 
form,  a secure  foundation,  capable  of  infinite  superstructure  ; 
a reality  of  true  value,  as  far  as  it  reaches,  while  the  common 
artistical  effects  and  groupings  are  a vain  effort  at  superstrucb 
lire  without  foundation — utter  negation  and  fallacy  from 
beginning  to  end. 

But  more  than  this,  the  very  faithfulness  of  the  Pre-Raph- 
aelites arises  from  the  redundance  of  their  imaginative  power. 
Not  only  can  all  the  members  of  the  school  compose  a thou- 
sand times  better  than  the  men  who  pretend  to  look  down 
upon  them,  but  I question  whether  even  the  greatest  men  of 
old  times  possessed  more  exhaustless  invention  than  either 
Millais  or  Rossetti  ; and  it  is  partly  the  very  ease  v/ith  which 
they  invent  which  leads  them  to  despise  invention.  Men  who 
have  no  imagination,  but  have  learned  merely  to  produce  a 
spurious  resemblance  of  its  results  by  the  recipes  of  composi- 
tion, are  apt  to  value  themselves  mightily  on  their  concoctive 
science  ; but  the  man  whose  mind  a thousand  living  imagi- 
nations haunt,  every  hour,  is  apt  to  care  too  little  for  them  ; and 
to  long  for  the  perfect  truth  which  he  finds  is  not  to  be  come 
at  so  easily.  And  though  I may  perhaps  hesitatingly  admit 
that  it  is  possible  to  love  this  truth  of  reality  too  intensely, 
yet  I have  no  hesitation  in  declaring  that  there  is  no  hope  for 
those  who  despise  it,  and  that  the  painter,  whoever  he  be,  who 
despises  the  pictures  already  produced  by  the  Pre-Ra23hael- 
ites,  has  himself  no  capacity  of  becoming  a great  painter  of 
any  kind.  Paul  Veronese  and  Tintoret  themselves,  without 
desiring  to  imitate  the  Pre-Raphaelite  work,  would  have  looked 
upon  it  with  deep  respect,  as  John  Bellini  looked  on  that  of 
Albert  Purer ; none  but  the  ignorant  could  be  unconscious 
of  its  truth,  and  none  but  the  insincere  regardless  of  it. 
How  far  it  is  possible  for  men  educated  on  the  severest  Pre- 
Ra^Dhaelite  principles  to  advance  from  their  present  style  into 
that  of  the  great  schools  of  com2)osition,  I do  not  care  to  in- 
quire, for  at  this  period  such  an  advance  is  certainly  not  de- 
sirable. Of  great  comjoositions  we  have  enough,  and  more 
than  enough,  and  it  would  be  well  for  the  world  if  it  were 


3?A) 


LECTURES  ON  ARCIUTECTURE 


willing  to  take  some  care  of  those  it  has.  Of  pure  and  manly 
truth,  of  stern  statement  of  the  things  done  and  seen  around 
us  daily,  we  have  hitherto  had  nothing.  And  in  art,  as  in  all 
other  things,  besides  the  literature  of  which  it  speaks,  that 
sentence  of  Carlyle  is  inevitably  and  irreversibly  true  : — “ Day 
after  day,  looking  at  the  high  destinies  which  yet  await  litera- 
ture, which  literature  will  ere  long  address  herself  with  more 
decisiveness  than  ever  to  fulfil,  it  grows  clearer  to  us  that  the 
proper  task  of  literature  lies  in  the  domain  of  Belief,  within 
which,  poetic  fiction,  as  it  is  charitably  named,  will  have 
to  take  a quite  new  figure,  if  allowed  a settlement  there. 
Whereby  were  it  not  reasonable  to  prophecy  that  this  exceed- 
ing great  multitude  of  novel  writers  and  such  like,  must,  in 
a new  generation,  gradually  do  one  of  two  things,  either  retire 
into  nurseries,  and  work  for  children,  minors,  and  semifatu- 
ous  persons  of  both  sexes,  or  else,  what  were  far  better,  sw^eep 
their  novel-fabric  into  the  dust  cart,  and  betake  them,  with 
such  faculty  as  they  have,  to  understand  and  record  what  is  true, 
of  which  surely  there  is  and  for  ever  will  be  a whole  infinitude 
unknown  to  us,  of  infinite  importance  to  us.  Poetry  will 
more  and  more  come  to  be  understood  as  nothing  but  higher 
knowledge,  and  the  only  genuine  Bomance  for  grown  persons, 
Beality.” 

As  I was  copying  this  sentence,  a pamphlet  was  put  into 
my  hand,  written  by  a clergyman,  denouncing  “ Woe,  woe, 
woe  ! to  exceedingly  young  men  of  stubborn  instincts  calling 
themselves  Pre-Baphaehtes.”  ^ 

I thank  God  that  the  Pre-Raphaelites  are  young,  and  that 
strength  is  still  with  them,  and  life,  with  all  the  war  of  it,  still 
in  front  of  them.  Yet  Everett  Millais  is  this  year  of  the  exact 
age  at  which  Raphael  painted  the  Disjiuta,  his  greatest  work  ; 
Rossetti  and  Hunt  are  both  of  them  older  still, — nor  is  there 
one  member  of  the  body  so  young  as  Giotto,  when  he  was 
chosen  from  among  the  painters  of  Italy  to  decorate  the  Vati- 

* Art,  its  Constitution  and  Capacities,  &c.  by  tlie  Rev.  Edward  Young, 
M.A.  The  phrase  “ exceedingly  young  men,  of  stubborn  instincts,”  be* 
ing  twice  quoted  (carefully  excluding  the  context)  from  my  pamphlet 
on  Pre-Rapliaelitism. 


AND  PAINTING, 


337 


can.  But  Italy,  in  her  great  period,  knew  her  great  men,  and 
did  not  “ despise  their  youth.”  It  is  reserved  for  England  to 
insult  the  strength  of  her  noblest  children — to  wither  their 
warm  enthusiasm  early  into  the  bitterness  of  patient  battle, 
and  leave  to  those  whom  she  should  have  cherished  and  aided, 
no  hope  but  in  resolution,  no  refuge  but  in  disdain. 

Indeed  it  is  woeful,  when  the  young  usurp  the  place,  or  de- 
spise the  wisdom,  of  the  aged ; and  among  the  many  dark 
signs  of  these  times,  the  disobedience  and  insolence  of  youth 
are  among  the  darkest.  But  with  whom  is  the  fault  ? Youth 
never  yet  lost  its  modesty  where  age  had  not  lost  its  honour  ; 
nor  did  childhood  ever  refuse  its  reverence,  except  where  age 
had  forgotten  correction.  The  cry,  “Go  up  thou  bald  head,” 
will  never  be  heard  in  the  land  which  remembers  the  precept, 
“ See  that  ye  despise  not  one  of  these  little  ones  ; ” and  al- 
though indeed  youth  may  become  despicable,  when  its  eager 
hope  is  changed  into  presumption,  and  its  progressive  power 
into  arrested  pride,  there  is  something  more  despicable  still, 
in  the  old  age  which  has  learned  neither  judgment  nor  gen- 
tleness, which  is  weak  without  charity,  and  cold  without  dis^ 
cretion. 


AN  INQUIRY 

INTO  SOME  OF 

THE  CONDITIONS  AT  PRESENT  AFFECTING 

THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

IN  OUR  SCHOOLS 


Read  at  the  Ordinary  General  Meeting^  of  the  Royal  l7istitute  of 
British  Architects^  May  15,  18G5. 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


I SUPPOSE  there  is  no  man  who,  permitted  to  address,  for  the 
first  time,  the  Institute  of  British  Architects,  would  not  feel 
himself  abashed  and  restrained,  doubtful  of  his  claim  to  be 
heard  by  them,  even  if  he  attempted  only  to  describe  what 
had  come  under  his  personal  observation,  much  more  if  on 
the  occasion  he  thought  it  would  be  expected  of  him  to 
touch  upon  any  of  the  general  principles  of  the  art  of  archi- 
tecture before  its  principal  English  masters. 

But  if  any  more  than  another  should  feel  thus  abashed,  it 
is  certainly  one  who  has  first  to  ask  their  pardon  for  the  petu- 
lance of  boyish  expressions  of  partial  thought ; for  ungracefid 
advocacy  of  principles  which  needed  no  support  from  him, 
and  discourteous  blame  of  work  of  which  he  had  never  felt 
the  difficulty. 

Yet,  when  I ask  this  pardon,  gentlemen — and  I do  it  sin- 
cerely and  in  shame — it  is  not  as  desiring  to  retract  anything 
in  the  general  tenor  and  scope  of  what  I have  hitherto  tried 
to  say.  Permit  me  the  pain,  and  the  apparent  impertinence, 
of  speaking  for  a moment  of  my  own  past  work  ; for  it  is 
necessary  that  what  I am  about  to  submit  to  you  to-night 
should  be  spoken  in  no  disadvantageous  connection  with  that ; 
and  yet  understood  as  spoken  in  no  discordance  of  purpose 
with  that.  Indeed,  there  is  much  in  old  work  of  mine  which 
I could  wish  to  put  out  of  mind.  Eeasonings,  perhaps  not 
in  themselves  false,  but  founded  on  insufficient  data  and 
imperfect  experience — eager  preferences,  and  dislikes,  depend- 
ent on  chance  circumstances  of  association,  and  limitations 
of  sphere  of  labour : but,  while  I would  fain  now,  if  I could, 


'U2  the  study  of  architecture, 

modify  the  applications,  and  chasten  the  extravagance  of  my 
writings,  let  me  also  say  of  them  that  they  were  the  expres- 
sion of  a delight  in  the  art  of  architecture  which  was  too 
intense  to  he  vitally  deceived,  and  of  an  inquiry  too  honest 
and  eager  to  be  without  some  useful  result ; and  I only  wish 
I had  now  time,  and  strength,  and  power  of  mind,  to  carry 
on  more  worthily,  the  main  endeavour  of  my  early  work 
Tliat  main  endeavour  has  been  throughout  to  set  forth  the 
life  of  the  individual  human  spirit  as  modifying  the  applica- 
tion of  the  formal  laws  of  architecture,  no  less  than  of  all 
other  arts  ; and  to  show  that  the  power  and  advance  of  this 
art,  even  in  conditions  of  former  nobleness,  were  dependent 
on  its  just  association  with  sculpture  as  a means  of  expressing 
the  beauty  of  natural  forms : and  I the  more  boldly  ask  your 
permission  to  insist  somewhat  on  this  main  meaning  of  my 
past  work,  because  there  are  many  buildings  now  rising  in 
the  streets  of  London,  as  in  other  cities  of  England,  which 
appear  to  be  designed  in  accordance  with  this  principle,  and 
which  are,  I believe,  more  offensive  to  all  who  thoughtfully 
concur  with  me  in  accepting  the  princqffe  of  Naturalism  than 
they  are  to  the  classical  architect  to  whose  modes  of  design 
they  are  visibly  antagonistic.  Tliese  buildings,  in  which  the 
mere  cast  of  a flower,  or  the  realization  of  a vulgar  face, 
carved  without  pleasure  by  a workman  who  is  only  endeav- 
ouring to  attract  attention  by  novelty,  and  then  fastened 
on,  or  appearing  to  be  fastened,  as  chance  may  dictate,  to 
an  arch,  or  a pillar,  or  a wall,  hold  such  relation  to  nobly 
naturalistic  architecture  as  common  sign-painter’s  furniture 
landscapes  do  to  painting,  or  commonest  wax-work  to  Greek 
sculpture  ; and  the  feelings  with  which  true  naturalists  regard 
such  buildings  of  this  class  are,  as  nearly  as  might  be,  what 
a painter  would  experience,  if,  having  contended  earnestly 
against  conventional  schools,  and  having  asserted  that  the 
Greek  vase-painting,  and  Egyq^tian  wall-painting,  and  Medie- 
val glass-painting,  though  beautiful,  all,  in  their  place  and 
way,  were  yet  subordinate  arts,  and  culminated  only  in  per- 
fectly naturalistic  wmrk  such  as  Raphael’s  in  fresco,  and 
Titian’s  on  canvas  ; — if,  I say,  a painter,  fixed  in  such  faitlj 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


343 

in  an  entire,  intellectual,  and  manly  truth,  and  maintaining 
that  an  Egyptian  profile  of  a head,  however  decoratively  ap- 
plicable, was  only  noble  for  such  human  truth  as  it  contained, 
and  was  imperfect  and  ignoble  beside  a work  of  Titian’s, 
were  shown,  by  his  antagonist,  the  colored  daguerreotype  of 
a human  body  in  its  nakedness,  and  told  that  it  was  art  such 
xs  that  which  he  really  advocated,  and  to  such  art  that  his 
principles,  if  carried  out,  would  finally  lead. 

And  because  this  question  lies  at  the  very  root  of  the  or- 
ganization of  the  system  of  instruction  for  our  youth,  I vent- 
ure boldly  to  express  the  surprise  and  regret  with  which  I 
see  our  schools  still  agitated  by  assertions  of  the  ojxposition 
of  Naturalism  to  Invention,  and  to  the  higher  conditions  of 
art.  Even  in  this  very  room  I believe  there  has  lately  been 
question  whether  a sculptor  should  look  at  a real  living 
creature  of  which  he  had  to  carve  the  image.  I would  answer 
in  one  sense, — no  ; that  is  to  say,  he  ought  to  carve  no  living 
creature  while  he  still  needs  to  look  at  it.  If  we  do  not  know 
what  a human  body  is  like,  we  certainly  had  better  look,  and 
look  often,  at  it,  before  we  carve  it  ; but  if  we  already  know 
the  human  likeness  so  well  that  we  can  carve  it  by  light  of 
memory,  we  shall  not  need  to  ask  whether  we  ought  now  to 
look  at  it  or  not ; and  what  is  true  of  man  is  true  of  all  other 
creatures  and  organisms — of  bird,  and  beast,  and  leaf.  No 
assertion  is  more  at  variance  with  the  laws  of  classical  as 
well  as  of  subsequent  art  than  the  common  one  that  species 
should  not  be  distinguished  in  great  design.  We  might  as 
well  say  that  we  ought  to  carve  a man  so  as  not  to  know  him 
from  an  ape,  as  that  we  should  carve  a lily  so  as  not  to  know 
it  from  a thistle.  It  is  difficult  for  me  to  conceive  how  this 
can  be  asserted  in  the  presence  of  any  remains  either  of  great 
Greek  or  Italian  art.  A Greek  looked  at  a cockle-shell  or  a 
cuttle-fish  as  carefully  as  he  looked  at  an  Olympic  conqueror. 
The  eagle  of  Elis,  the  lion  of  Velia,  the  horse  of  Syracuse,  the 
bull  of  Thurii,  the  dolphin  of  Tarentum,  the  crab  of  Agrigen- 
tum,  and  the  crawfish  of  Catana,  are  studied  as  closely,  every 
one  of  them,  as  the  Juno  of  Argos,  or  Apollo  of  Clazomenae. 
Idealism,  so  far  from  being  contrary  to  special  truth,  is  the 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


very  abstraction  of  specialty  from  everything  else.  It  is  the 
earnest  statement  of  the  characters  which  make  man  man, 
and  cockle  cockle,  and  flesh  flesh,  and  fish  fish.  Feeble 
thinkers  indeed,  always  su2:>pose  that  distinction  of  kind  in- 
volves meanness  of  style  ; but  the  meanness  is  in  the  treat- 
ment, not  in  the  distinction.  There  is  a noble  way  of  carving 
a man,  and  a mean  one  ; and  there  is  a noble  way  of  carving 
a beetle,  and  a mean  one  ; and  a great  sculptor  carves  his 
scarabaeus  grandly,  as  he  carves  his  king,  while  a mean 
sculj^tor  makes  vermin  of  both.  And  it  is  a sorrowful  truth, 
yet  a sublime  one,  that  this  greatness  of  treatment  cannot  be 
taught  by  talking  about  it.  No,  nor  even  by  enforced  imita- 
tive i^ractice  of  it.  Men  treat  their  subjects  nobly  only  when 
they  themselves  become  noble  ; not  till  then.  And  that  ele- 
vation of  their  own  nature  is  assuredly  not  to  be  effected  by 
a course  of  drawing  from  models,  however  well  chosen,  or  of 
listening  to  lectures,  however  well  intended. 

Art,  national  or  individual,  is  the  result  of  a long  course  of 
j)revious  life  and  training  ; a necessary  result,  if  that  life  has 
been  loyal,  and  an  imi:)ossible  one,  if  it  has  been  base.  Let  a 
nation  be  healthful,  haj^py,  2)ure  in  its  enjoyments,  brave  in 
its  acts,  and  broad  in  its  affections,  and  its  art  will  spring 
round  and  within  it  as  freely  as  the  foam  from  a fountain  ; 
but  let  the  sj)rings  of  its  life  be  im^Dure,  and  its  course  ^^ol- 
luted,  and  you  will  not  get  the  bright  sjDray  by  treatises  on 
the  mathematical  structure  of  bubbles. 

And  I am  to-night  the  more  restrained  in  addressing  you, 
because,  gentlemen — I tell  you  honestly — I am  weary  of  all 
writing  and  speaking  about  art,  and  most  of  my  own.  No 
good  is  to  be  reached  that  waj^  The  last  fifty  years  have,  in 
every  civilized  country  of  Euroj^e,  produced  more  brilliant 
thought,  and  more  subtle  reasoning  about  art,  than  the  five 
thousand  before  them  ; and  what  has  it  all  come  to  ? Do  not 
let  it  be  thought  that  I am  insensible  to  the  high  merits  of 
much  of  our  modern  work.  It  cannot  be  for  a moment  sn2> 
posed  that  in  speaking  of  the  inefficient  exjn’ession  of  the 
doctrines  which  writers  on  art  have  tried  to  enforce,  I was 
thinking  of  such  Gothic  as  has  been  designed  and  built  by 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCIIITECTUnE. 


315 


Mr.  Scott,  Mr.  Buttei'fielcl,  Mr.  Street,  Mr.  Waterhouse,  Mr. 
Godwin,  or  my  dead  friend,  Mr.  Woodward.  Their  work 
has  been  original  and  independent.  So  far  as  it  is  good,  it 
has  been  founded  on  principles  learned  not  from  books,  but 
by  study  of  the  monuments  of  the  great  schools,  develojDed 
by  national  grandeur,  not  by  philosophical  speculation.  But 
I am  entirely  assured  that  those  who  have  done  best  among 
us  are  the  least  satisfied  with  what  they  have  done,  and  will 
admit  a sorrowful  concurrence  in  my  belief  that  the  spirit,  or 
rather,  I should  say,  the  dispirit,  of  the  age,  is  heavily 
against  them  ; that  all  the  ingenious  writing  or  thinking 
which  is  so  rife  amongst  us  has  failed  to  educate  a j)ublic 
capable  of  taking  true  pleasure  in  any  kind  of  art,  and  that 
the  best  designers  never  satisfy  their  own  requirements  of 
themselves,  unless  by  vainly  addressing  another  temper  of 
mind,  and  providing  for  another  manner  of  life,  than  ours. 
All  lovely  architecture  was  designed  for  cities  in  cloudless 
air ; for  cities  in  which  piazzas  and  gardens  opened  in  bright 
populousness  and  peace  ; cities  built  that  men  might  live 
happily  in  them,  and  take  delight  daily  in  each  other’s  pres- 
ence and  powers.  But  our  cities,  built  in  black  air,  which, 
by  its  accumulated  foulness,  first  renders  all  ornament  invisi- 
ble in  distance,  and  then  chokes  its  interstices  with  soot ; 
cities  which  are  mere  crowded  masses  of  store,  and  ware- 
house, and  counter,  and  are  therefore  to  the  rest  of  the 
world  what  the  larder  and  cellar  are  to  a private  house  ; 
cities  in  which  the  object  of  men  is  not  life,  but  labour  ; and 
in  which  all  chief  magnitude  of  edifice  is  to  enclose  machin- 
ery ; cities  in  which  the  streets  are  not  the  avenues  for  the 
passing  and  procession  of  a happy  people,  but  the  drains  for 
the  discharge  of  a tormented  mob,  in  which  the  only  object 
in  reaching  any  spot  is  to  be  transferred  to  another  ; in  which 
existence  becomes  mere  transition,  and  every  creature  is  only 
one  atom  in  a drift  of  human  dust,  and  current  of  inter^ 
changing  particles,  circulating  here  by  tunnels  under  ground, 
and  there  by  tubes  in  the  air  ; for  a city,  or  cities,  such  as 
this,  no  architecture  is  possible — nay,  no  desire  of  it  is  pos- 
sible to  their  inhabitants. 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCIITTECTUIIE. 


84(> 

One  of  the  most  singular  proofs  of  the  vanity  of  all  hop© 
that  conditions  of  art  may  be  combined  with  the  occupations 
of  such  a city,  has  been  given  lately  in  the  design  of  the  new 
iron  bridge  over  the  Thames  at  Blackfriars.  Distinct  attempt 
has  been  there  made  to  obtain  architectural  effect  on  a grand 
scale.  Nor  was  there  anything  in  the  nature  of  the  work  to 
prevent  such  an  effort  being  successful.  It  is  not  an  edifice’s 
being  of  iron,  or  of  glass,  or  thrown  into  new  forms,  de- 
manded by  new  purposes,  which  need  hinder  its  being  beau- 
tiful. But  it  is  the  absence  of  all  desire  of  beauty,  of  all  joy 
in  fancy,  and  of  all  freedom  in  thought.  If  a Greek,  or  Eg^^p- 
tian,  or  Gothic  architect  had  been  required  to  design  such  a 
bridge,  he  would  have  looked  instantly  at  the  main  conditions 
of  its  structure,  and  dwelt  on  them  with  tfie  delight  of  imag- 
ination. He  would  have  seen  that  the  main  thing  to  be  done 
was  to  hold  a horizontal  group  of  iron  rods  steadily  and 
straight  over  stone  piers.  Then  he  would  have  said  to  him- 
self (or  felt  without  saying),  “ It  is  this  holding, — this  grasp, 
— this  securing  tenor  of  a thing  which  might  be  shaken,  so 
that  it  cannot  be  shaken,  on  which  I have  to  insist.”  And 
he  would  have  put  some  life  into  those  iron  tenons.  As 
a Greek  put  human  life  into  his  pillars  and  produced  the 
caryatid  ; and  an  Egyptian  lotos  life  into  his  pillars,  and  pro- 
duced the  lily  capital : so  here,  either  of  them  w'ould  have 
put  some  gigantic  or  some  angelic  life  into  those  colossal 
sockets.  He  would  perhaps  have  put  vast  winged  statues  of 
bronze,  folding  their  wings,  and  grasping  the  iron  rails  with 
their  hands  ; or  monstrous  eagles,  or  serpents  holding  with 
claw  or  coil,  or  strong  four-footed  animals  couchant,  holding 
with  the  paw,  or  in  fierce  action,  holding  with  teeth.  Thou- 
sands of  grotesque  or  of  lovely  thoughts  would  have  risen 
before  him,  and  the  bronze  forms,  animal  or  human,  would 
have  signified,  either  in  symbol  or  in  legend,  whatever  might 
be  gracefully  told  respecting  the  purposes  of  the  work  and 
the  districts  to  which  it  conducted.  Whereas,  now,  the  en- 
tire invention  of  the  designer  seems  to  have  exhausted  itself 
in  exaggerating  to  an  enormous  size  a weak  form  of  iron  nut, 
and  in  conveying  the  information  upon  it,  in  large  letters, 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


347 

that  it  belongs  to  the  London,  Chatham,  and  Dover  Railway 
Company.  I believe,  then,  gentlemen,  that  if  there  were  any 
life  in  the  national  mind  in  such  respects,  it  would  be  shown 
in  these  its  most  energetic  and  costly  works.  But  tliat  there 
is  no  such  life,  nothing  but  a galvanic  restlessness  and  cov- 
etousness, wdth  which  it  is  for  the  present  vain  to  strive  ; and 
in  the  midst  of  which,  tormented  at  once  by  its  activities  and 
its  apathies,  having  their  work  continually  thrust  aside  and 
dishonoured,  always  seen  to  disadvantage,  and  overtopped  by 
huge  masses,  discordant  and  destructive,  even  the  best  archi- 
tects must  be  unable  to  do  justice  to  their  own  powers. 

But,  gentlemen,  while  thus  the  mechanisms  of  the  age  pre- 
vent even  the  wisest  and  best  of  its  artists  from  producing 
entirely  good  work,  may  we  not  reflect  with  consternation 
what  a marvellous  ability  the  luxury  of  the  age,  and  the  very 
advantages  of  education,  confer  on  the  unwise  and  ignoble 
for  tl3£  production  of  attractively  and  infectiously  had  work. 
I do  not  think  that  this  adverse  influence,  necessarily  affecting 
all  conditions  of  so-called  civilization,  has  been  ever  enough 
considered.  It  is  impossible  to  calculate  the  power  of  the 
false  workman  in  an  advanced  period  of  national  life,  nor  the 
temptation  to  all  workmen  to  become  false. 

First,  there  is  the  irresistible  appeal  to  vanity.  There  is 
hardly  any  temptation  of  the  kind  (there  cannot  be)  while 
the  arts  are  in  progress.  The  best  men  must  then  always  be 
ashamed  of  themselves  ; they  never  can  be  satisfied  with  their 
work  absolutely,  but  only  as  it  is  progressive.  Take,  for  in- 
stance, any  archaic  head  intended  to  be  beautiful ; say,  the 
Attic  Athena,  on  the  early  Arethusa  of  Syracuse.  In  that,  and 
in  all  archaic  work  of  promise,  there  is  much  that  is  inefficient, 
much  that  to  us  appears  ridiculous — but  nothing  sensual, 
nothing  vain,  nothing  spurious  or  imitative.  It  is  a child’s 
work,  a childish  nation’s  w^ork,  but  not  a fool’s  work.  You 
find  in  children  the  same  tolerance  of  ugliness,  the  same  eager 
and  innocent  delight  in  their  own  work  for  the  moment,  how- 
ever feeble  ; but  next  day  it  is  thrown  aside,  and  something 
better  is  done.  Now,  in  this  careless  play,  a child  or  a child- 
ish nation  differs  inherently  from  a foolish  educated  person, 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


or  a nation  advanced  in  pseudo-civilization.  The  educated 
person  has  seen  all  kinds  of  beautiful  things,  of  which  he 
would  fain  do  the  like — not  to  add  to  their  numl^er — but  for 
his  own  vanity,  that  he  also  may  be  called  an  artist.  Here  is 
at  once  a singular  and  fatal  difference.  The  childish  nation 
sees  nothing  in  its  own  2>ast  work  to  satisfy  itself.  It  is 
jdeased  at  having  done  this,  but  wants  something  better ; it 
is  struggling  forward  always  to  reach  this  better,  this  ideal 
concejotion.  It  wants  more  beauty  to  look  at,  it  wants  more 
subject  to  feel.  It  calls  out  to  all  its  artists — stretching  its 
hands  to  them  as  a little  child  does — “Oh,  if  you  would  but 
tell  me  another  story,” — “ Oh,  if  I might  but  have  a doll  with 
bluer  eyes.”  That’s  the  right  temper  to  work  in,  and  to  get 
work  done  for  you  in.  But  the  vain,  aged,  highly-educated 
nation  is  satiated  with  beautiful  things — it  has  myriads  more 
than  it  can  look  at ; it  has  fallen  into  a habit  of  inattention  ; 
it  2)asses  weary  and  jaded  through  galleries  which  contain  the 
best  fruit  of  a thousand  years  of  human  travail ; it  gapes  and 
shrugs  over  them,  and  pushes  its  way  j^ast  them  to  the  door. 
But  there  is  one  feeling  that  is  always  distinct ; however  jaded 
and  languid  we  may  be  in  all  other  pleasures,  we  are  never 
languid  in  vanity,  and  we  ’would  still  jDaint  and  carve  for  fame. 
What  other  motive  have  the  nations  of  Europe  to-day  ? If 
they  wanted  art  for  art’s  sake,  they  would  take  care  of  what  they 
have  already  got.  But  at  this  instant  the  two  noblest  pictures 
in  Venice  are  lying  rolled  up  in  out-houses,  and  the  noblest 
2)ortrait  of  Titian  in  existence  is  hung  forty  feet  from  the 
ground.  We  have  absolutely  no  motive  but  vanity  and  the 
love  of  money — no  others,  as  nations,  than  these,  whatever 
we  may  have  as  individuals.  And  as  the  thirst  of  vanity  thus 
increases,  so  the  tem2)tation  to  it.  There  was  no  fame  of  ar- 
tists in  these  archaic  days.  Every  year,  every  hour,  saw  some 
one  rise  to  surj^ass  what  had  been  done  before.  And  there 
was  always  better  work  to  be  done,  but  never  any  credit  to  be 
got  by  it.  The  artist  lived  in  an  atmosjdiere  of  iDerjDetual, 
wholesome,  inevitable  eclij^se.  Bo  as  well  as  you  choose  to- 
day,— make  the  whole  Borgo  dance  with  delight,  they  would 
dance  to  a better  man’s  ^ji^De  to-morrow.  Credetic  Cimabue 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


8413 

nella  inttura,  tener  lo  campo,  et  ora  ha  Giotto  it  cjridc.  This 
was  the  fate,  the  necessary  fate,  even  of  the  strongest.  They 
could  only  hope  to  be  remembered  as  links  in  an  endless 
chain.  For  the  weaker  men  it  was  no  use  even  to  put  their 
name  on  their  works.  They  did  not.  If  they  could  not  work 
for  joy  and  for  love,  and  take  their  part  simply  in  the  choir 
of  human  toil,  they  might  throw  up  their  tools.  But  now  it 
is  far  otherwise — now,  the  best  having  been  done — and  for  a 
couple  of  hundred  years,  the  best  of  us  being  confessed  to 
have  come  short  of  it,  everybody  thinks  that  he  may  be  the 
great  man  once  again ; and  this  is  certain,  that  whatever  in 
art  is  done  for  display,  is  invariably  wrong. 

But,  secondly,  consider  the  attractive  power  of  false  art, 
completed,  as  compared  with  imperfect  art  advancing  to  com- 
pletion. Archaic  work,  so  far  as  faultful,  is  repulsive ; but 
advanced  work  is,  in  all  its  faults,  attractive.  The  moment 
that  art  has  reached  the  point  at  which  it  becomes  sensitively 
and  delicately  imitative,  it  appeals  to  a new  audience.  From 
that  instant  it  addresses  the  sensualist  and  the  idler.  Its  de- 
ceptions, its  successes,  its  subtleties,  become  interesting  to 
every  condition  of  folly,  of  frivolity,  and  of  vice.  And  this 
new  audience  brings  to  bear  upon  the  art  in  which  its  foolish 
and  wicked  interest  has  been  unhappily  awakened,  the  full 
power  of  its  riches  : the  largest  bribes  of  gold  as  well  as  of 
praise  are  offered  to  the  artist  who  will  betray  his  art,  until 
at  last,  from  the  sculpture  of  Phidias  and  fresco  of  Luini,  it 
sinks  into  the  cabinet  ivory  and  the  picture  kept  under  lock 
and  key.  Between  these  highest  and  lowest  types,  there  is  a 
vast  mass  of  merely  imitative  and  delicately  sensual  sculpt- 
ure ; veiled  nymphs — chained  slaves — soft  goddesses  seen  by 
rose-light  through  suspended  curtains — drawing-room  por- 
traits and  domesticities,  and  such  like,  in  which  the  interest 
is  either  merely  personal  and  selfish,  or  dramatic  and  sensa- 
tional ; in  either  case,  destructive  of  the  power  of  the  public 
to  sympathize  with  the  aims  of  great  architects. 

Gentlemen,  I am  no  Puritan,  and  have  never  praised  or  ad- 
vocated Puritanical  art.  The  two  pictures  which  I would  last 
part  with  out  of  our  National  Gallery,  if  there  were  question 


350 


THE  STUDY  OF  AUCITlTEUTUnE. 


of  parting  with  any,  would  he  Titian’s  Bacchus  and  Correg* 
gio’s  Venus.  But  the  noble  naturalism  of  these  was  the  fruit 
of  ages  of  previous  courage,  continence,  and  religion — it  was 
the  fulness  of  passion  in  the  life  of  a Britomart.  But  the  mid 
age  and  old  age  of  nations  is  not  like  the  mid  age  or  old  age 
of  noble  women.  National  decrepitude  must  be  criminal. 
National  death  can  only  be  by  disease,  and  yet  it  is  almost 
impossible,  out  of  the  history  of  the  art  of  nations,  to  elicit 
the  true  conditions  relating  to  its  decline  in  any  demonstra- 
ble manner.  The  history  of  Italian  art  is  that  of  a struggle 
between  superstition  and  naturalism  on  one  side,  between 
continence  and  sensuality  on  another.  So  far  as  naturalism 
prevailed  over  superstition,  there  is  always  progTess  ; so  far 
as  sensualit}^  over  chastity,  death.'  And  the  two  contests  are 
simultaneous.  It  is  impossible  to  distinguish  one  victory 
from  the  other.  Observe,  however,  I say  victory  over  super- 
stition, not  over  religion.  Let  me  carefully  define  the  differ- 
ence. Superstition,  in  all  times  and  among  all  nations,  is  the 
fear  of  a spirit  whose  j^assions  are  those  of  a man,  whose  acts 
are  the  acts  of  a man  ; who  is  jmesent  in  some  places,  not  in 
others  ; who  makes  some  places  holy,  and  not  others  ; who  is 
kind  to  one  person,  unkind  to  another  ; who  is  pleased  or 
angry  according  to  the  degree  of  attention  you  pay  to  him,  or 
praise  you  refuse  to  him  ; who  is  hostile  generally  to  human 
pleasure,  but  may  be  bribed  by  sacrifice  of  a part  of  that 
pleasure  into  permitting  the  rest.  This,  whatever  form  of 
faith  it  colours,  is  the  essence  of  superstition.  And  religion 
is  the  belief  in  a Spirit  whose  mercies  are  over  all  His  works 
— ^vho  is  kind  even  to  the  unthankful  and  the  evil ; who 
is  everywhere  present,  and  therefore  is  in  no  place  to  be 
sought,  and  in  no  place  to  be  evaded  ; to  whom  all  creat- 
ures, times,  and  things  are  everlastingly  holy,  and  who 
claims — not  tithes  of  wealth,  nor  sevenths  of  days — but  all 
the  wealth  that  we  have,  and  all  the  days  that  we  live, 
and  all  the  beings  that  we  are,  but  who  claims  that  totality 
because  He  delights  only  in  the  delight  of  His  creatures  ; and 
because,  therefore,  the  one  duty  that  they  ow^e  to  Him,  and 
the  only  service  they  can  render  Him,  is  to  be  happy.  A 


TUE  STUDY  OF  AECHITECTURE. 


351 


Spii’it,  therefore,  whose  eternal  benevolence  cannot  be  an- 
gered, cannot  be  appeased ; whose  laws  are  everlasting  and 
inexorable,  so  that  heaven  and  earth  must  indeed  pass  away 
if  one  jot  of  them  failed  : laws  which  attach  to  every  wrong 
and  error  a measured,  inevitable  penalty  ; to  every  rightness 
and  prudence,  an  assured  reward  ; penalty,  of  which  the  re- 
mittance cannot  be  purchased ; and  reward,  of  which  the 
promise  cannot  be  broken. 

And  thus,  in  the  history  of  art,  we  ought  continually  to  en- 
deavour to  distinguish  (while,  except  in  broadest  lights,  it  is 
impossible  to  distinguish)  the  work  of  religion  from  that  of 
superstition,  and  the  work  of  reason  from  that  of  infidelity. 
Ileligion  devotes  the  artist,  hand  and  mind,  to  the  service  of 
the  gods  ; superstition  makes  him  the  slave  of  ecclesiastical 
pride,  or  forbids  his  work  altogether,  in  terror  or  disdain. 
Keligion  perfects  the  form  of  the  divine  statue  ; superstition 
distorts  it  into  ghastly  grotesque.  Keligion  contemplates  the 
gods  as  the  lords  of  healing  and  life,  surrounds  them  with 
glory  of  affectionate  service,  and  festivity  of  pure  human 
beauty.  Superstition  contemplates  its  idols  as  lords  of  death, 
appeases  them  with  blood,  and  vows  itself  to  them  in  torture 
and  solitude.  Keligion  proselytizes  by  love,  superstition  by 
war  ; religion  teaches  by  example,  superstition  by  persecu- 
tion. Keligion  gave  granite  shrine  to  the  Egyptian,  golden 
temple  to  the  Jew,  sculptured  corridor  to  the  Greek,  pillared 
aisle  and  frescoed  wall  to  the  Christian.  Superstition  made 
idols  of  the  splendours  by  which  religion  had  spoken  : rever- 
enced pictures  and  stones,  instead  of  truths ; letters  and  laws 
instead  of  acts  ; and  for  ever,  in  various  madness  of  fantastic 
desolation,  kneels  in  the  temple  while  it  crucifies  the  Christ. 

On  the  other  hand,  to  reason  resisting  superstition,  we  owe 
the  entme  compass  of  modern  energies  and  sciences  : the 
healthy  laws  of  life,  and  the  possibilities  of  future  progress. 
But  to  infidelity  resisting  rehgion  (or  which  is  often  enough 
the  case,  taking  the  mask  of  it),  we  owe  sensuahty,  cruelty 
and  war,  insolence  and  avarice,  modern  political  economy,  life 
by  conservation  of  forces,  and  salvation  by  every  man’s  look- 
ing after  his  own  interests  ; and  generally,  whatsoever  of  guilt, 


352 


TUB  STUDY  OF  ARCIIITEGTUIIE. 


and  folly,  and  death,  there  is  abroad  among  us.  And  of  the 
two,  a thousand-fold  rather  let  us  retain  some  colour  of  super- 
stition, so  that  we  may  keep  also  some  strength  of  religiori, 
than  comfort  ourselves  with  colour  of  reason  for  the  desolation 
of  godlessness.  I would  say  to  every  j^outh  who  entered  our 
schools — be  a Mahometan,  a Diana-worshipper,  a Fire-wor- 
shipper, Eoot-worshipper,  if  you  will ; but  at  least  be  so  much 
a man  as  to  know  wdiat  worship  means.  I had  rather,  a mill- 
ion-fold rather,  see  you  one  of  those  ‘‘  quibus  hgec  nascuntur 
in  hortis  numiiia,”  than  one  of  those  quibus  hsec  nascuntur 
in  cordibus  lumina  ; and  who  are,  by  everlasting  oiqdianage, 
divided  from  the  Father  of  Spirits,  who  is  also  the  Father  of 
lights,  from  wdiom  cometh  every  good  and  perfect  gift. 

“ So  much  of  man,”  I say,  feeling  profoundly  that  all  right 
exercise  of  any  human  gift,  so  descended  from  the  Giver  of 
good,  de2:>ends  on  the  formation  of  the  character 

of  true  manliness  in  the  youth, — that  is  to  say,  of  a majestic, 
grave,  and  deliberate  strength.  How  strange  the  words  sound  ; 
how  little  does  it  seem  i)ossible  to  conceive  of  majesty,  and 
gravity,  and  deliberation  in  the  daily  track  of  modern  life. 
Yet,  gentlemen,  w^e  need  not  hope  that  our  wmrk  will  be  ma- 
jestic if  there  is  no  majesty  in  ourselves.  The  w’ord  “ manly  ” 
has  come  to  mean  practically,  among  us,  a schoolboy’s  char- 
acter, not  a man’s.  We  are,  at  our  best,  thoughtlessly  im^Detu- 
ous,  fond  of  adventure  and  excitement ; curious  in  knowdedge 
for  its  novelty,  not  for  its  system  and  results  ; faithful  and  af- 
fectionate to  those  among  whom  wm  are  by  chance  cast,  but 
gently  and  calmly  insolent  to  strangers  ; we  are  stupidly  con- 
scientious, and  instinctively  brave,  and  alw^ays  ready  to  cast 
away  the  lives  we  take  no  j^ains  to  make  valuable,  in  causes  of 
which  we  have  never  ascertained  the  justice.  This  is  our  high- 
est tyj^e — notable  peculiarly  among  nations  for  its  gentleness, 
together  wdth  its  courage  ; but  in  lower  conditions  it  is  es- 
2:)ecially  liable  to  degradation  by  its  love  of  jest  and  of  vulgar 
sensation.  It  is  against  this  fatal  tendency  to  vile  ^day  that 
we  have  chiefly  to  contend.  It  is  the  spirit  of  Milton’s  Comus ; 
bestial  itself,  but  having  power  to  arrest  and  paralyze  all  who 
come  within  its  influence,  even  pure  creatures  sitting  helxfless, 


THE  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


353 


mocked  by  it  on  their  marble  thrones.  It  is  incompatible, 
not  only  with  all  greatness  of  character,  but  with  all  true  glad- 
ness of  heart,  and  it  develops  itself  in  nations  in  proportion 
to  their  degradation,  connected  with  a peculiar  gloom  and  a 
singular  tendency  to  play  with  death,  which  is  a morbid  reac- 
tion  from  the  morbid  excess. 

A book  has  lately  been  published  on  the  Mythology  of  the 
Rhine,  with  illustrations  by  Gustave  Dore.  The  Rhine  god 
is  represented  in  the  vignette  title-page  with  a pipe  in  one 
hand  and  a pot  of  beer  in  the  other.  You  cannot  have  a more 
complete  type  cf  the  tendency  which  is  chiefly  to  be  dreaded 
in  this  age  than  in  this  conception,  as  opposed  to  any  possi- 
bility of  rei^resentation  of  a river-god,  however  playful,  in  the 
mind  of  a Greek  painter.  The  example  is  the  more  notable 
because  Gustave  Dore’s  is  not  a common  mind,  and,  if  born 
in  any  other  epoch,  he  would  probably  have  done  valuable 
(though  never  first-rate)  work  ; but  by  glancing  (it  wnll  be  im- 
possible for  you  to  do  more  than  glance)  at  his  illustrations 
of  Balzac’s  “Contes  Drolatiques,”  you  will  see  further  how 
this  “ drolatique,”  or  semi-comic  mask,  is,  in  the  truth  of  it, 
the  mask  of  a skull,  and  how  the  tendency  to  burlesque  jest 
is  both  in  France  and  England  only  an  effervescence  from  the 
cloaca  maxima  of  the  putrid  instincts  which  fasten  themselves 
on  national  sin,  and  are  in  the  midst  of  the  luxury  of  Euroj^ean 
capitals,  what  Dante  meant  when  he  wrote,  quel  mi  sceglio  cot 
qmzzo,  of  the  body  of  Ytie  Wealth- Siren  ; the  mocking  levity 
and  mocking  gloom  being  equally  signs  of  the  death  of  the 
soul ; just  as,  contrariwise,  a passionate  seriousness  and  pas- 
sionate joyfulness  are  signs  of  its  full-  life  in  works  such  as 
those  of  Angelico,  Luini,  Ghiberti,  or  La  Robbia. 

It  is  to  recover  this  stern  seriousness,  this  pure  and  thrilb 
ing  joy,  together  with  perpetual  sense  and  spiritual  presence, 
that  all  true  education  of  youth  must  now  be  directed.  This 
seriousness,  this  passion,  this  universal  human  religion,  are 
the  first  principles,  the  true  roots  of  all  art,  as  they  are  of  all 
doing,  of  all  being.  Get  this  vis  viva  first  and  all  great  wmrk 
will  follow.  Lose  it,  and  your  schools  of  art  will  stand  among 
other  living  schools  as  the  frozen  corpses  stand  by  the  wind' 


354 


TUB  STUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE, 


ing  stair  of  the  St.  Michael’s  Convent  of  Mont  Cenis,  holding 
their  hands  stretched  out  under  their  shrouds,  as  if  beseech-^ 
ing  the  passer-by  to  look  upon  the  wasting  of  their  death. 

And  all  the  higher  branches  of  technical  teaching  are  vain 
without  this  ; nay,  are  in  some  sort  vain  altogether,  for  they 
are  superseded  by  this.  You  may  teach  imitation,  because 
the  meanest  man  can  imitate  ; but  you  can  neither  teach  ideal- 
ism nor  composition,  because  only  a great  man  can  choose, 
conceive,  or  compose  ; and  he  does  all  these  necessarily,  and 
because  of  his  nature.  His  greatness  is  in  his  choice  of  things, 
in  his  analysis  of  them  ; and  his  combining  powers  involve 
the  totality  of  his  knowledge  in  life.  His  methods  of  observa- 
tion and  abstraction  are  essential  habits  of  his  thought,  con- 
ditions of  his  being.  If  he  looks  at  a human  form  he  recog- 
nises the  signs  of  nobility  in  it,  and  loves  them — hates  what- 
ever is  diseased,  frightful,  sinful,  or  designant  of  decay.  All 
ugliness,  and  abortion,  and  fading  away  ; all  signs  of  vice 
and  foulness,  he  turns  away  from,  as  inherently  diabolic  and 
horrible  ; all  signs  of  unconquered  emotion  he  regrets,  as 
w^eaknesses.  He  looks  only  for  the  calm  purity  of  the  human 
creature,  in  living  conquest  of  its  passions  and  of  fate. 

That  is  idealism  ; but  you  cannot  teach  any  one  else  that 
preference.  Take  a man  who  likes  to  see  and  paint  the  gam- 
bler’s rage  ; the  hedge-ruffian’s  enjoyment  ; the  debauched 
soldier’s  strife  ; the  vicious  woman’s  degradation ; — take  a 
man  fed  on  the  dusky  picturesque  of  rags  and  guilt ; talk  to 
him  of  principles  of  beauty ! make  him  draw  what  you  will, 
how  you  will,  he  will  leave  the  stain  of  himself  on  whatever 
he  touches.  You  had  better  go  lecture  to  a snail,  and  tell  it 
to  leave  no  slime  behind  it  Try  to  make  a mean  man  corn* 
pose  ; you  will  find  nothing  in  his  thoughts  consecutive  or 
proportioned — nothing  consistent  in  his  sight — nothing  in  his 
fancy.  He  cannot  comprehend  tw^o  things  in  relation  at  once 
— how  much  less  twenty  ! How  much  less  all ! Everything 
is  uppermost  with  him  in  its  turn,  and  each  as  large  as  the 
rest ; but  Titian  or  Veronese  compose  as  tranquilly  as  they 
would  speak — inevitably.  The  thing  comes  to  them  so — 
they  see  it  so — rightly,  and  in  harmony  : they  will  not  talk 


TUB  SlUDY  OF  ARUniTEGTUBE. 


355 


to  you  of  composition,  hardly  even  understanding  how  lower 
people  see  things  otherwise,  but  knowing  that  if  they  do  see 
otherwise,  there  is  for  them  the  end  there,  talk  as  j'ou  will. 

I had  intended,  in  conclusion,  gentlemen,  to  incur  such 
blame  of  presumption  as  might  be  involved  in  offering  some 
hints  for  present  practical  methods  in  architectural  schools, 
but  here  again  I am  checked,  as  I have  been  throughout,  by 
a sense  of  the  uselessness  of  all  minor  means  and  helps,  with- 
out the  establishment  of  a true  and  broad  educational  sys- 
tem. My  wish  would  be  to  see  the  profession  of  the  archi- 
tect united,  not  with  that  of  the  engineer,  but  of  the  sculp- 
tor. I think  there  should  be  a separate  school  and  university 
course  for  engineers,  in  which  the  principal  branches  of  study 
connected  with  that  of  practical  building  should  be  the  phys- 
ical and  exact  sciences,  and  honours  should  be  taken  in 
mathematics  ; but  I think  there  should  be  another  school  and 
university  course  for  the  sculptor  and  architect  in  which  lit- 
erature and  philosophy  should  be  the  associated  branches  of 
study,  and  honours  should  be  taken  in  Uteris  hiimanioribus, 
and  I think  a young  architect’s  examination  for  his  degree 
(for  mere  pass),  should  be  much  stricter  than  that  of  youths 
intending  to  enter  other  professions.  The  quantity  of 
scholarship  necessary  for  the  efficiency  of  a country  clergy- 
man is  not  great.  So  that  he  be  modest  and  kindly,  the 
main  truths  he  has  to  teach  may  be  learned  better  in  his 
heart  than  in  books,  and  taught  in  very  simple  English.  The 
best  physicians  I have  known  spent  very  little  time  in  their 
libraries  ; and  though  my  lawyer  sometimes  chats  with  me 
over  a Greek  coin,  I think  he  regards  the  time  so  spent  in 
the  light  rather  of  concession  to  my  idleness  than  as  helpful 
to  his  professional  labours. 

But  there  is  no  task  undertaken  by  a true  architect  of 
which  the  honourable  fulfilment  will  not  require  a range  of 
knowledge  and  habitual  feelingv  only  attainable  by  advanced 
scholarship. 

Since,  however,  such  expansion  of  system  is,  at  present, 
beyond  hope,  the  best  we  can  do  is  to  render  the  studies 
undertaken  in  our  schools  thoughtful,  reverent,  and  refined. 


350 


THE  STUDY  OF  AnOJIlTECTURE. 


according  to  our  power.  Especially  it  sliould  be  our  aim  to 
prevent  the  minds  of  the  students  from  being  distracted  by 
models  of  an  unworthy  or  mixed  character.  A museum  is 
one  thing — a school  another  ; and  I am  persuaded  that  as  the 
efficiency  of  a school  of  literature  dejoends  on  the  mastering 
a few  good  books,  so  the  efficiency  of  a school  of  art  will 
depend  on  the  understanding  a few  good  models.  And  so 
strongly  do  I feel  this  that  I would,  for  my  own  part,  at  once 
consent  to  sacrifice  my  personal  predilections  in  art,  and  to 
vote  for  the  exclusion  of  all  Gothic  or  Mediseval  models  what- 
soever, if  by  this  sacrifice  I could  obtain  also  the  exclusion  of 
Byzantine,  Indian,  Benaissance-French,  and  other  more  or 
less  attractive  but  barbarous  work  ; and  thus  concentrate  the 
^ mind  of  the  student  wholly  upon  the  study  of  natural  form, 
and  upon  its  treatment  by  the  sculptors  and  metal  ^vorkers 
of  Greece,  Ionia,  Sicily,  and  Magna  Grsecia,  between  500  and 
350  B.C.,  but  I should  hope  that  exclusiveness  need  not  be 
carried  cjuite  so  far. 

I think  Donatello,  Mino  of  Fiesole,  the  Eobbias,  Ghiberti, 
Verrocchio,  and  Michael  Angelo,  should  be  adequately  repre- 
sented in  our  schools — together  with  the  Greeks — and  that  a 
few  carefully  chosen  examples  of  the  floral  sculpture  of  the 
North  in  the  thirteenth  century  should  be  added,  with  espe- 
cial view  to  display  the  treatment  of  naturalistic  ornament  in 
subtle  connection  with  constructive  requirements  ; and  in  the 
course  of  study  pursued  with  reference  to  these  models,  as  of 
admitted  perfection,  I should  endeavour  first  to  make  the 
student  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  natural  forms  and 
characters  of  the  objects  he  had  to  treat,  and  then  to  exercise 
him  in  the  abstraction  of  these  forms,  and  the  suggestion  of 
these  characters,  under  due  sculptural  limitation.  He  should 
first  be  taught  to  draw  largely  and  simpty  ; then  he  should 
make  quick  and  firm  sketches  of  flow^ers,  animals,  draj)ery, 
and  figunes,  from  nature,  in  the  simplest  terms  of  line,  and 
light,  and  shade ; always  being  taught  to  look  at  the  organic 
actions  and  masses,  not  at  the  textures  or  accidental  effects 
of  shade  ; meantime  his  sentiment  resj^ecting  all  these  things 
sliould  be  cultivated  by  close  and  constant  inquiry  into  their 


TUE  STUDY  OF  p l,  | SCy^  I |i  li 

mythological  significance  and  associated  traditions  ; / tlieii, 
knowing  the  things  and  creatures  thoroughly,  and  regarding 
them  through  an  atmosphere  of  enchanted  memory,  he 
should  be  shown  how  the  facts  he  has  taken  so  long  to  learn 
are  summed  up  by  a great  sculptor  in  a few  touches  : how 
those  touches  are  invariably  arranged  in  musical  and  decora- 
tive relations  ; how  every  detail  unnecessary  for  his  purpose 
is  refused  ; how  those  necessary  for  his  purpose  are  insisted 
upon,  or  even  exaggerated,  or  represented  by  singular  arti- 
fice, when  literal  representation  is  impossible  ; and  how  all 
this  is  done  under  the  instinct  and  passion  of  an  inner  com- 
manding spirit  wdiich  it  is  indeed  impossible  to  imitate,  but 
possible,  perhaps,  to  share. 

Perhaps ! Pardon  me  that  I speak  despondingly.  For 
my  own  part,  I feel  the  force  of  mechanism  and  the  fury  of 
avaricious  commerce  to  be  at  present  so  irresistible,  that  I 
have  seceded  from  the  study  not  only  of  architecture,  but 
nearly  of  all  art ; and  have  given  myself,  as  I would  in  a 
besieged  city,  to  seek  the  best  modes  of  getting  bread  and 
water  for  its  multitudes,  there  remaining  no  question,  it 
seems  to  me,  of  other  than  such  grave  business  for  the  time. 

But  there  is,  at  least,  this  ground  for  courage,  if  not  for 
hope  : As  the  evil  spirits  of  avarice  and  luxury  are  directly 
contrary  to  art,  so,  also,  art  is  directly  contrary  to  them, 
and  according  to  its  force  expulsive  of  them  and  medicinal 
against  them  ; so  that  the  establishment  of  such  schools  as  I 
have  ventured  to  describe — whatever  their  immediate  suc- 
cess or  ill-success  in  the  teaching  of  art — would  yet  be  the  di- 
rectest  method  of  resistance  to  those  conditions  of  evil  among 
which  our  youth  are  cast  at  the  most  critical  period  of  their 
lives.  We  may  not  be  able  to  produce  architecture,  but,  at 
the  least,  we  shall  resist  vice.  I do  not  know  if  it  has  been 
observed  that  while  Dante  rightly  connects  architecture,  as 
the  most  permanent  expression  of  the  pride  of  humanity, 
whether  just  or  unjust,  with  the  first  cornice  of  Purgatory,  he 
indicates  its  noble  function  by  engraving  upon  it,  in  perfect 
sculpture,  the  stories  which  rebuke  the  errors  and  purify  the 
purposes  of  noblest  souls.  In  the  fulfilment  of  such  function, 


'j  i;  j ; 358  f y 't  f ' TEE  BTUDY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

literally  and  practically,  here  among  men,  is  the  only  real  use 
or  imide  of  noble  architecture,  and  on  its  acceptance  or  sur- 
render of  that  function  it  depends  whether,  in  future,  the 
cities  of  England  melt  into  a ruin  more  confused  and  ghastly 
than  ever  storm  wasted  or  wolf  inhabited,  or  purge  and  exalt 
themselves  into  true  habitations  of  men,  whose  walls  shall  be 
Safety,  and  whose  gates  shall  be  Praise. 


LOVELL’S  CENTURY  SERIESJ 


Comprising  one  hundred  volumes  of  classic  works,  embracing 
fiction,  essays,  poetry,  history,  science,  art,  and  philosophy — 
selected  from  the  best  literature,  written  by  authors  of 
world-wide  reputation.  Printed  from  large  type,  on 
good  paper,  and  bound  in  handsome  cloth 
binding.  12mo,  cloth,  gilt. 


Retail  Price,  75  Cents  per  Volume. 


Adam  Bede.  By  George  Eliot. 

Adventures  of  Gil  Bias.  By  Le 
Sage. 

Alhambra.  By  Washington 
Irving. 

Alice’s  Adventures  in  Wonder- 
land, and  Through  the  Looking 
Glass.  In  one  volume.  By 

Lewis  Carroll. 

All  Sorts and  Conditions  of 
men.  By  Besant  and  Rice. 

Angler,  The  Complete.  By  Walton 
and  Cotton. 

Bacon’s  Essays.  By  Francis 

Bacon. 

Bleak  House.  By  Charles 
Dickens. 

Cast  Up  by  the  Sea.  By  Sir 

Samuel  Baker. 

Caxtons,  The.  By  Bulwer  Lytton. 

Child’s  History  of  England, 
and  Miscellaneous.  By  Charles 
Dickens. 

Cloister  and  the  Hearth.  By 

Charles  Reade. 

Confessions  of  an  English  Opium 
Eater.  By  Thomas  De  Quincey. 

Consuelo.  By  George  Sand. 

Corinne.  By  Madame  De  Stael. 

Cranford.  By  Mrs.  Gaskell. 

Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  and  Se- 
same and  Lilies.  By  J.  Ruskin. 


Daniel  Deronda.  By  George  Eliot. 

Data  of  Ethics.  By  Herbert 
Spencer. 

David  Copperfield.  By  Charles 
Dickens. 

David  Elginbrod.  By  George 
Macdonald. 

A 

Descent  of  Man,  The.  By  Chas. 
Darwin. 

Discourses  of  Epictetus.  By- 
George  Long. 

Divine  Comedy.  By  Dante. 

Dombey  and  Son.  By  Charles 
Dickens. 

East  Lynne.  By  Mrs.  Henry 
Wood. 

Egyptian  Princess,  An.  By  Georg 
Ebers. 

Emerson’s  Essays.  1st  and  2d 
Series  in  1 vol. 

Essays  of  Elia.  By  Charles  Lamb. 

Faust.  By  J.  W.  Goethe. 

Felix  Holt.  By  George  Eliot. 

Fifteen  Decisive  Battles  of  the 
World.  By  E.  S.  Creasy. 

First  Principles.  By  Herbert 
Spencer. 

First  Violin,  The.  By  Jessie 
Fothergill. 

Frederick  the  Great  and  His 
Court.  By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 


LOVELL,  COETELL  & 00.,  43, 46  & 47  East  lOtli  St.,  New  York, 


LOVELL’S  CENTURY  SERIES-Continued. 

^ j 


Green  Mountain  1 By  Judge 
Thompson. 


Henry  Esmond. 
M.  Thackeray. 


By  William 


History  of  Civilization  in  Europe. 
By  Guizot. 


Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse.  By 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

Natural  Law  in  the  Spiritual 
World.  By  Henry  Drummond. 


Nicholas  Nickleby. 
Dickens. 


By  Charles 


Holy  Roman  Empire.  By  Wm. 
Bryce. 

Humphi-ey  Clinker.  By  T. 
Smollet., 

Hypatia.  By  Charles  Kingsley. 

Hyperion.  By  Henry  W.  Long- 
fellow. 

Ivanhoe.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

In  the  Golden  Days.  By  Edna 
Lyall. 

John  Halifax,  Gentleman.  By 
Miss  Mulock. 

i 

Jane  Eyre.  By  Charlotte  Bronte. 
Knight  Errant.  By  Edna  Lyall. 

Lamplighter,  The.  By  Maria  S. 
Cummins. 


Old  Curiosity  Shop.  By  Charles 
Dickens. 

Oliver  Twist,  Pictures  from  Italy, 
and  American  Notes.  By  Chas. 
Dickens. 

On  the  Heights.  By  Berthold 
Auerbach. 

Origin  of  Species,  The.  By 
Charles  Darwin. 

Other  Worlds  than  Ours.  By 
Richard  Proctor. 

Our  Mutual  Friend.  By  Charles 
Dickens. 

Outre  Mer.  By  Henry  W.  Long- 
fellow. 

Past  and  Present.  By  Thomas 
Carlyle. 


Last  Days  of  Pompeii.  By  Bulwer 
Lytton. 

Last  of  the  Barons.  By  Bulwer 
Lytton. 

Life  of  Christ.  By  Canon  Farrar. 

Little  Minister,  The.  By  J.  M. 
Barrie. 

Locke  A m s d e n . By  Judge 
Thompson. 

Lorna  D o o n e . By  R.  D. 

Blackmore. 

Lucile.  By  Owen  Meredith. 

Meditations  of  Marcus  Aurelius. 
By  Geo.  Long. 

Middlemarch.  By  George  Eliot. 

Mill  on  the  Floss,  The.  By  George 
Eliot. 

Moonstone,  The.  By  Wilkie 
Collins. 


Pere  Goriot.  By  Honore  de 
Balzac. 

Phra,  the  Phoenician.  By  Edwin 
Lester  Arnold. 

Pickwick  Papers.  By  Charles 
Dickens. 

Pilgrim’s  Progress.  By  John 
Bunyan. 

Poe’s  Tales.  By  Edgar  Allan 
Poe. 

Pride  and  Prejudice.  By  Jane 
Austen. 

Prime  Minister,  The.  By  An- 
thony Trollope. 

Plutarch’s  Lives. 

Romola.  By  George  Eliot. 

Scarlet  Letter,  The.  By 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

Self-Help.  By  Samuel  Smiles, 


LOVELL,  OOEXELL  & 00.,  43,  45  & 47  East  lOtL  St.,  New  York. 


LOVELL’S  CENTURY  SERIES— Continued. 


Seneca’s  Morals. 

Sense  and  Sensibility.  By  Jane 
Austen. 

Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture.  By 
John  Buskin. 

Silas  Marner.  By  George  Eliot. 

Silence  of  Dean  Maitland,  The. 
By  Maxwell  Gray. 

Sketch  Book,  The.  By  Washing- 
ton Irving. 

Story  of  an  African  Farm,  The. 
By  Ralph  Iron. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities,  A,  and 
Sketches  by  Boz.  By  C.  Dickens. 

Tales  from  Shakespeare.  By 
Charles  and  Mary  Lamb. 


1 I ii  ■ 

Thousand,  MiJ^s I up  ,the,Nilej  Aj 
By  A.  IllMJardy  ■ •'!  'iM 

Twice  Told  Tales.  By  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne. 

Uarda.  By  Georg  Ebers. 

Undine.  By  De  la  Motte  Fouque. 

Vanity  Fair.  By  William  M. 
Thackeray. 

Vicar  of  Wakefield,  By  Oliver 
Goldsmith. 

Waverley.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott, 

Westward  Ho!  By  Charles 
Kingsley, 

Wieland  ; or.  The  Transforma- 
tion. By  Charles  B.  Brown. 

Zenobia.  By  William  Ware. 


UFIVSESAL  SEEIES-Half  Calf. 


The  following  volumes  are  uniformly  bound  in  fine  half  calf,  gilt 
tops.  Each  volume  in  box. 


Retail  Price,  per  Volume,  $2.00. 


Angler,  The  Complete.  By 
Walton  and  Cotton. 

Bacon's  Essays.  By  Francis 
Bacon. 

Cloister  and  the  Hearth.  By 
Charles  Reade. 

Confessions  of  an  English  Opium 
Eater.  By  Thos,  De  Quincey. 

Consuelo,  By  George  Sand, 

Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  and  Sesame 
and  Lilies.  By  John  Ruskin, 


Corinne.  By  Madame  De  Stael. 

Daniel  Deronda.  By  Geo.  Eliot. 

Data  of  Ethics.  By  Herbert 
Spencer. 

David  Elginbrod.  By  George 
Macdonald. 

David  Copperfield.  By  ’Charles 
Dickens. 

Descent  of  Man,  The.  By  Charles 
Darwin, 


LOVELL,  OOKXELL  & 00.,  43,  45  & 47  East  lOtL  St,,  New  York. 


, / UNIVERSAL  SERIES 

DisoourRes  of  Ejiictqtus.  By 

George  Long. 

Don  Quixote.  By  Cervantes. 

Early  Days  of  Christianity.  By 
Canon  Farrar. 

Egyptian  Princess,  An.  By 

Georg  Ebers. 

Emerson’s  Essays.  1st  and  2d 
Series  in  one  volume. 

Essays  of  Elia.  By  Cbas.  Lamb. 
Faust.  By  J.  W.  von  Goethe. 

Fifteen  Decisive  Battles  of  the 
World.  By  E.  S.  Creasy. 

First  Principles.  By  Herbert 
Spencer. 

Geikie’s  Life  of  Christ. 

History  of  Civilization  in  Europe. 
By  Guizot. 

Holy  Roman  Empire.  By  Wm. 
Bryce. 

Hypatia.  By  Chas.  Kingsley. 
Ivanhoe.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Jane  Eyre.  By  Charlotte  Bronte. 

John  Halifax,  Gentleman.  By 
Miss  Mulock. 

Last  Days  of  Pompeii,  The.  By 
Bulvver  Lytton. 

Life  of  Christ.  By  Canon  Farrar. 

Lorna  D o o n e . By  R.  D. 
Blackmore. 

Meditations  of  Marcus  Aurelius. 
By  George  Long. 

IMiddlemarch.  By  George  Eliot. 
Natural  Law  in  the  Spiritual 
World.  By  Henry  Drummond. 

Noctes  Ambrosianae.  By  Chris- 
topher North.  4 
On  the  Heights.  By  Berthold 
Auerbach. 

Origin  of  Species,  The.  By 
Charles  Darwin. 


— Half  Calf — Continued. 


Other  Worlds  Than  Ours.  By 
Richard  Proctor. 

Past  and  Present.  By  Thomas 
Carlyle. 

Plutarch’s  Lives.  By  Langhorne. 

Poe’s  Tales.  By  Edgar  Allan 
Poe. 

Pride  and  Prejudice.  By  Jane 
Austen. 

Prime  Minister,  The.  By  An- 
thony Trollope. 

Romola.  By  George  Eliot. 

Sartor  Resartus.  By  Thomas 
Carlyle. 

Scarlet  Letter,  The.  By 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

Self-Help.  By  Samuel  Smiles. 

Sense  and  Sensibility.  By  Jane 
Austen. 

Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture. 
By  John  Ruskin, 

Sketch  Book,  The.  By  Wash- 
ington Irving. 

Taine’s  History  of  English  Litera- 
ature. 

Tales  from  Shakespeare.  By 
Charles  and  Mary  Lamb. 

Thousand  Miles  up  the  Nile,  A. 
By  A.  B.  Edwards. 

Uarda.  By  Georg  Ebers. 

Undine.  By  Baron  Fouque. 

Vanity  Fair.  By  William  M. 
Thackeray. 

Vicar  of  Wakefield,  The.  By 
Oliver  Goldsmith. 

Villa  on  the  Rhine.  By  Berthold 
Auerbach. 

Waverley.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Westward  Ho  ! By  Rev.  Charles 
Kingsley. 

Zenobia.  By  William  Ware. 


LOVELL,  OOKYELL  & CO.,  43,  45  & 47  East  lOth  St.,  New  York, 


{ 


• I 


\ 


1- 


1, 


V 


